Macbeth
by cyropi
Summary: ‘Come what come may, time and the hour runs through the roughest day.’ Voldemort’s second rise to power and a part in Shakespeare’s infamous Scottish Play make this fitting for Hermione – especially when she discovers a darker side to Draco Malfoy. PreHBP
1. Act One, Scene One

Macbeth: Act One, Scene One.

**Disclaimer:** So that JK's lawyers don't sue me, I am obliged to say that I don't own Harry Potter or any related people, places etc. I doubt Shakespeare's lawyers would sue me if I didn't say that I don't own Macbeth, but just in case I have an accident with a malfunctioning Time Turner: I don't own that either.

**AN:** As I promised my readers of Fallen; here is Macbeth, shiny, new and waiting to be read. Anyone who's been reading Fallen will have heard a bit about this fic already, but for those who either haven't read that fic or have very bad memories...

My main inspiration for this was studying, falling in love with and subsequently going to see Macbeth with school. As I skipped back to our hotel merrily in the amber streetlights and damp drizzle in what I imagine must be similar to a 'post-coital haze', I was rather suddenly bitten by a rabid plotbunny for this very fic that you see before you now.

I'm sure that many of you who've been reading DHr for some time will have come across the clichéd plot of, 'Hogwarts puts on Romeo and Juliet, Draco and Hermione are cast in the lead roles, and subsequently end up snogging by Act Two.' This was my secondary inspiration; attempting to write something which could be seen as a cliché in a new, fresh, and hopefully non-clichéd way, part of which involved using _Macbeth_ rather than _R&J_. Whether I've succeeded, you must judge for yourselves.

A working knowledge of the play would be useful, and you can find a free online copy of Macbeth and many other Shakespeare plays by searching on Google, should you wish to read them. I've tried to work all the really vital information into the story, so that people unfamiliar with the text can understand it, but there will be occasional quotes and references that only people who've read it will spot!

With that said, onto the first chapter. Macbeth should update weekly on Mondays, though this is subject to change depending on whether I can balance it with the evils of homework.

Enjoy!

* * *

'Is this a dagger which I see before me, the handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee. I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible to feeling as to sight, and why on earth is he raving on about daggers anyway?' Ron asked, looking up from his rather battered library copy of Macbeth. 'If I was hallucinating daggers, I wouldn't stand there and rave about it, I'd go to St. Mungo's and get my eyes checked out by a Healer.'

Hermione gave him a reproachful look. 'Macbeth was a Muggle, and St Mungo's wasn't even around then,' she pointed out. 'And this is drama, Ron. It's the beginning of Macbeth's descent into insanity...'

'Even more reason why he should go see a Healer,' Ron said stubbornly, ignoring Hermione's groaned complaint that they were called _doctors_. 'He might have stayed sane if he had...'

'Lady Macbeth has a doctor,' Hermione pointed out, 'and she still goes mad.'

'Does she hallucinate daggers too?' Ron asked with interest.

She glared at him. 'No, she hallucinates blood. Are you going to read that soliloquy, or can I use the book now?'

'So lily _what_?'

Hermione was saved from explaining what a soliloquy was by the timely arrival of Harry, his black hair made slightly grey by a thin coating of dust. 'I found another copy,' he said with a grin, 'buried right at the back of the Muggle Studies section. It's in really good condition, though, look.'

'Two copies between three of us,' Hermione remarked, taking the book from Harry's hand and flicking through it, 'That should be alright for now. I'll have to send an owl to my parents and ask if we have a copy at home. I know Dad got a set of some of his favourite Shakespearian plays from his friends when he turned forty; I _think_ he has a Macbeth...'

'His friends gave him Shakespeare for his birthday?' Ron asked. 'I'd rather have socks...'

This elicited a choked laugh from Harry and a dark glare from Hermione. 'Just because you don't appreciate literature doesn't mean that other people don't,' she said firmly.

'Appreciate it? I can't even understand it,' Ron grumbled. 'It's a play about some bloke going mad and hallucinating daggers...'

Harry, sensing Hermione's irritation, quietly picked up the copy of the play he'd found and started reading Macbeth's speech.

'There is a lot more to the play than _daggers_,' Hermione said pointedly. 'It's about how the evil and occult can seduce a good person into committing greater and greater acts of wickedness.' She took a breath, eyes fixed firmly on Ron, who looked rather confused.

'The witches are representatives of evil. They prophesise to Macbeth that he shall become Thane of Cawdor and then King of Scotland, and shortly after he learns that the king has in fact appointed him Thane of Cawdor. He tells his wife this, and she persuades him that the best way to make the second prophecy come true is to murder the present king, which they do. They then become King and Queen of Scotland, but the guilt of their murders drives them mad, especially when Macbeth murders more and more people. Eventually, they both die.'

'Sounds like a depressing story,' Ron remarked, after a pause to absorb the information.

'It's a tragedy,' Hermione pointed out. 'They aren't _meant_ to live happily ever after. And we should really be practicing, we only have a week till auditions.' Hermione paused, tilting her head on one side as she tried to work out how to read Shakespeare with only two books between three people. 'Do you and Harry want to practice out of that new one, and I'll use the old one? It'd be easier if we all had the same reading, but since we don't, we'll have to make do.'

Ron frowned. 'I don't think I want to practice,' he said reflectively. 'I'm not very good at acting. And I haven't a clue what the words mean...'

'You might as well give it a go, Ron.' Harry said. 'Go on, it's only a play. And I bet Hermione can tell you what the difficult bits mean...'

'And I get stage fright,' Ron added firmly. 'I was in a kid's play when I was seven – some daft idea of Mum's – and I was awful, seriously, I threw up twice.'

Hermione, who'd been looking through the tattered copy of Macbeth, looked up at that comment. 'Many of the greatest actors were the same way,' she remarked, 'so it doesn't mean anything...'

'Except I'm not a great actor.' Ron pointed out with a half-grin. 'And I don't want to be either. It's all just prancing around in a costume pretending to be some mad dagger-hallucinating guy...'

Hermione had to bite down quite hard on her tongue to keep herself from saying something insulting. Glancing to one side, she noticed that Harry was reading the second copy of Macbeth with his eyebrows furrowed, as though he were trying to work something out.

'Do you want to have a go, Harry?' Hermione asked, and he glanced up.

'The first go? Er...' he said, somewhat nervously. 'I'm not going to be a very good actor either. I haven't even been near a stage since I was five...'

'Well, you have at least had some experience,' Hermione pointed out. 'I bet loads of people here haven't had any.'

Harry's lips had an odd way of pulling pack into the left corner when he was worried or nervous; they did so now. 'I don't think, 'I'm sorry, we don't have any room at our inn,' is really much in the way of experience...'

'You've been on a stage before, at the very least,' Hermione pointed out. 'And we're all going to practice this eventually – yes, even you, Ron. You might as well go first...'

'Okay, okay,' grumbled Harry, getting to his feet and moving into the open space near their table. He paused for a moment, then began. 'Is this a dagger...'

They took it in turns to practice, despite having two texts; it was more relaxing to sit back and watch your friends' performances. Harry started off nervously, tripping over words and mixing up phrases, but as soon as he got over his initial jitters and started to get into the spirit of things he was much better. Hermione and Ron made careful suggestions, and within half an hour he was, at the very least, confident and earnest and making a definite attempt to act well.

Ron tended to either overact or drift into a dull monotone, and most of Hermione and Harry's efforts went towards getting him to a comfortable midpoint. Hermione, privately, thought that if they could get him to audition (he was still protesting vigorously at the idea) he could well make an excellent Porter.

The two boys assured Hermione that she was doing well. The girls had been asked to practice Lady Macbeth's very first scene – Act One, Scene Five – in which she received the letter from Macbeth and gave a short speech on how Macbeth was too 'full o' the milk of human kindness' to murder King Duncan. Hermione found she quite liked the scene, although she wished she could also do the 'Come, you spirits that tend on mortal thoughts...' part. But the letter was enough of a challenge; she forced herself to pay attention to every action, every word, every tone of voice and every expression, until Ron declared that her transformation into Lady Macbeth was 'bloody freaky.'

'How so?' she'd asked with a frown, and Ron had explained,

'It's like you're someone else under Polyjuice Potion. It's weird.' Flattered, she had blushed and thanked him.

Then Harry had risen to take his turn, and they'd carried on in much the same manner until Malfoy turned up, sneering. In one hand he carried a small book, bound in perfect black leather that looked as though it'd never been touched, carefully positioned so the sunlight reflected off its silver gilt title: _Macbeth_.

He glanced over them as though they were so pathetic as to be amusing, and in a sarcastic, mocking voice, he said, 'How now, you secret, black and midnight...' He looked directly at Hermione. '..._hags_. What is it you do?'

Ron and Harry, not having read the play before, were clueless, but Hermione jumped in quickly.

'A deed without a name,' she snapped, then glared directly at him. 'Ferret extermination.'

Ron didn't even attempt to hide his laughter. Malfoy merely raised an eyebrow.

'Poor Weasel,' he said, with an expression full of false sympathy. 'The meagre wages of a pest killer would probably be more money than he's seen in his whole life. No wonder he's gone into hysterics.'

This shut Ron up rather quickly. The tips of his ears went red; he got to his feet slowly, one hand on his wand.

'Malfoy...' he began, his voice a growl, but Harry cut him off.

'Get out, Malfoy,' he said, his tone spotted with loathing. 'I'm not going to try to stop him if he goes for you.'

Malfoy leant against a bookshelf, smirking maliciously. 'I don't think you can order me out of the Library, Potter,' he pointed out. 'As I recall, it's open to everyone for doing homework, research, leisurely reading...' His eyes fell upon the battered copy of Macbeth in Ron's hand. 'And practicing for the auditions, it would seem. I hope you don't have any delusions of actually _getting_ a part; you'll all be _so_ upset when they laugh you out of the auditions...'

'None of us is getting laughed out of the auditions, Malfoy,' Hermione cut in, surprised by how cold her voice was. 'I expect we're all a lot better than you, as we've been practicing for the past hour while you've been terrorising people...'

'Who said I've not been practicing?' Malfoy said. 'I'd give you a demonstration of how Macbeth ought to be acted, but I wouldn't lower myself to performing for filth like you.'

'Malfoy, one more word...' Ron growled, raising his wand to point directly at the Slytherin. Malfoy merely smiled in response, but Hermione noticed how his hand was hovering expectantly over his wand handle. If Ron attacked, Malfoy would fight back, and then Madam Pince would be furious with them for duelling in the Library.

'Ron, leave it,' Hermione hissed, 'he's not worth getting in trouble for...'

'Is the Mudblood worried about what I'll do to her pet Weasel?' Malfoy asked, amused. His pale face was slightly flushed; two spots of pale pink appeared on the tops of his cheekbones. 'Granger, I hope you aren't harbouring grand ideas of being cast as Lady Macbeth. They don't let Mudbloods play nobility.'

Ron really would have attacked him at this, if Hermione hadn't grabbed hold of his wand and forced it downwards to point at the table. This didn't stop him shouting. 'Hermione's ten times better than you!' he yelled, face bright red, trying to wrestle his wand out of Hermione's grip. 'And she could play Lady Macbeth any day...'

Malfoy was grinning, his silvery eyes amused at the scene before him. With a last smirk, he turned to leave. 'Perhaps,' he called over his shoulder, 'they'll let you play one of the attendants, Granger. That's your proper place in life, after all – waiting on the Purebloods.'

Ron finally wrestled his wand away from Hermione, shouted, '_Furnunculus!_' and hit the spot where Malfoy's head had been only seconds before, causing a number of ancient-looking books to burst into extremely odd looking boils.

'_Finite Incantatem_,' Hermione said, returning the books to normal and glaring at Ron. 'You shouldn't listen to him, Ron, he's trying to annoy you...'

'He was insulting you,' Ron protested, his voice almost like that of a child being scolded by their mother. He sank back into his seat.

'And_ I _didn't attack him,' Hermione pointed out. 'We're in a _library_, Ron, you don't duel in a library. What if you'd used a different spell, some of them aren't removable from inanimate objects...'

'Like which?' Harry asked, intrigued.

Hermione glared at him. 'You should pay more attention to Flitwick,' she said. 'The Full Body-Bind, for one. That would have made it impossible to ever open those books again...'

'Okay, okay,' Ron grumbled. 'No duelling in the library.'

'Good.' Hermione said. 'Now let's get back to practicing. I want to see Malfoy eating his words when the castings are announced...'

* * *

_The witches of Macbeth are not like the witches of modern fairytales. While modern witches are generally seen as evil, they are also frequently figures of fun, and their existence is not taken seriously. Shakespeare's audience would have genuinely believed in the existence and evilness of witches; they were perceived as being outside the Great Chain of Being that described the order of all natural things. Hence they were unnatural, minions of evilness and the Devil, and would have been far more frightening to people in Shakespeare's time than to the modern audience._

_It is interesting to note that King James I was interested in the evils of witchcraft; in fact, in..._

'Hermione?' Ron's voice was affectionately despairing. 'You _cannot_ actually be interested in that book.'

She was, actually. Directly after lunch, she'd borrowed Hedwig and sent a letter to her parents, telling them all about the play and asking to borrow a copy, if they had one at home. Shortly after tea, Hedwig had returned, bearing a beautiful copy of the play, a couple of old textbooks discussing major characters and themes, and a rather excited letter. She'd immediately curled up on a sofa to read the textbooks, and had paid no attention at all to the room around her since then.

It had been half-full when Hedwig had returned; now it was packed, and twice as noisy as usual. Groups of fifth and sixth-years were clustered together, chattering excitedly or acting out parts. In one corner, a particularly large group was hovering around a seventh-year Hermione vaguely recognised as Megan Montgomery, who was shuffling through reams of parchment and attempting to get the other students to leave her alone.

'For the final time, no, I _cannot_ give you any tips for the auditions,' she snapped, gesturing vividly with a quill. 'I suggest you leave me alone and go practice so I can get on with the organisation. And no, David, I am _not_ open to bribes. This is for my Muggle Studies NEWT, and I am not going to jeopardise my marks, thank you.'

Ron was tugging on the book. 'Come on, you've read enough textbooks to last you a lifetime,' he cajoled. 'It can't be _that_ interesting...'

'It is,' she said defensively. 'I'm reading about the witches and the Great Chain of Being...'

'Oh, Merlin,' Ron groaned, 'you didn't mention chains. Is he hallucinating _them_ too?'

She gave him a severe look. 'Not _literal_ chains, Ron. The Great Chain of Being. It's... a concept from Shakespeare's time; the concept that everything and everyone has a natural place in a hierarchy of existence. With the King at the top – of the human Chain at least – and everyone else below him in descending order until you reach peasants and beggars at the bottom. That's why Macbeth goes mad, because he's gone against the Great Chain, killing the king and taking his place, which upsets the natural order of things. There's a bit about that at the end of Act Two ...'

She reached for the copy of Macbeth her parents had sent her, intent on looking up the relevant quotes, but Ron grabbed hold of her hand. 'I get the picture, and I still can't see how any of that's interesting.'

'It's fascinating,' she replied stubbornly, 'and it's really important to the play. You can't act it if you don't know the major themes...'

'And you can't act it if you're sitting over here reading a textbook,' Ron replied just as stubbornly. 'You haven't said a word to anyone for two hours.'

She glanced at her watch; he was right. 'Fine, I'll come and chat for a while,' she gave in, getting to her feet, 'but I want to finish that book later.'

Ron grinned, tugging her to her feet impatiently. She closed her book reverently, left it on the table, and followed her impatient friend over to the large cluster of fifth and sixth-years gathered in front of the fireplace.

Lavender and Parvati squeezed up to offer her a place next to Harry – with Ron, there were five people squashed onto a three-person sofa, but somehow that seemed to make it more fun. Seamus was just embarking on a version of the dagger soliloquy in an exaggerated American accent, which kept the others in stitches, and by the time he got to, 'Art thou not, fatal vision...' Hermione was laughing along with them, her initial disapproval vanished at the _expression_ on Seamus' face.

After all, it wasn't as if Shakespeare had _disapproved_ of comedy...

When Seamus had finished his performance – to a round of thunderous applause – the conversation turned to more important things: discussions about who was auditioning, which role everyone wanted, what the seventh-year students directing the play were like, what various words or phrases in the audition pieces actually meant, and even, to Hermione's delight, a brief but intelligent debate about the Hecate-scenes.

It was a lovely evening, sandwiched between her friends and glowing in the heat from the fireplace, surrounded by the constant chatter and lively smiles. The conversation was punctuated by the occasional daring soul taking the opportunity to practice their audition piece, seriously or for the public amusement. Ron spent a good half an hour trying to persuade Hermione to take a go: she promised that she would if he did it first, at which he hastily declined. Harry took her up on it, though, and pulled off a very acceptable performance before scampering back to his seat. Hermione hadn't been able to see herself, of course, but the others assured her she'd been brilliant, and she'd settled back into her place glowing with praise.

They went to bed late, and Hermione curled into her blankets with visions of floating daggers and letters from husbands and prophecies and murders whirling through her head. She dreamt strangely exciting dreams – not nightmares as one would have thought – where she was Lady Macbeth, and plotting to kill Duncan and then going mad, only her dreams included all kinds of details the play never had. Odd little scenes of her own invention where she was explaining the Great Chain of Being to Macbeth, and pointing out that he'd go mad as if it meant nothing at all, to which he smiled and shrugged and said madness would be useful, and then Ron and Harry turned up from nowhere and she was explaining to them that she and her husband were going mad, so would they please take care of Crookshanks for her while she was away?

And then she turned back to Macbeth, and he had blood all over his hands and was staring at them in shock, and looked up at her – since when was he kneeling on the floor? – and held his hands towards her and whispered,

'A little water clears us of this deed. That's what _you_ said.' Hermione looked at her own hands and realised they were covered in water: she reached out to Macbeth's so that her touch could clean his skin too and woke up, feeling strangely unsettled by the abrupt ending. It hadn't been scary, just odd, in some way she couldn't put a name to; the mental equivalent of a wet finger circling the rim of a wine glass.

Still, it was only a dream, and she was asleep again within five minutes.

* * *

**A/N:** And so it begins... Anyway, make sure to check back next Monday for the second chapter, and don't forget to review – if you don't, I'll send the witches after you. And then you'll end up killing a king and going mad, which is never a good thing.

Review!


	2. Act One, Scene Two

Macbeth: Act One, Scene Two

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter or Macbeth. Macbeth belongs to JK Rowling, and Harry Potter belongs to William Shakespeare... no, that's wrong. Shakespeare belongs to JK Rowling, and Macbeth owns Harry Potter... or is it the other way round? At any rate, I don't own Macbeth, Harry Potter, William Shakespeare or JK Rowling.

**Thanks for 37 reviews goes to:** foxer, AbsnthLure, stars-n-moons91, Go10, emily, Ar-Zimraphel, Rebecca15, Kou Shun'u, Flexi Lexi, Genevieve Jones, RedWitch1, I-luv-Harry-Potter-Romance, dan4me, saj aneri, citcat299, Mjade-1, Saotoshi, sugar n spice 522, ablahkev, Sparkling Cherries, midnight-blue, Mother Zephyr, annikodomo, Saraiyu, MrsGabriellaMalfoy, SycoCallie, cherristiz, Storm079, Willowfairy, AerinBrown, gummybear, Chii, Stoneage Woman, brettley, draconas, Nikki, Francinator.

**A/N:** Thanks to everyone who reviewed the first chapter! It was a brilliant positive response – I'm getting quite excited about what you'll think of the rest of the story!

Currently, homework isn't too much of a strain (except for Biology homework, but that's only one subject; the others are good and even fun!) so I should be able to carry on Monday night updates.

And to people who noticed Draco's reference to the play when he was insulting them: well done! There's another quote like that in this chapter, actually – see if you can spot it!

Onto the chapter: enjoy!

* * *

'I can't believe they only gave us a week before the auditions,' moaned Hermione as they reached the Potions classroom. 'It's not nearly enough time... where's my copy of the play?' She swung her bag off her shoulder, dropped to her knees, and began a frantic search through her bag.

'Can't you leave that bloody play alone for one minute?' Ron protested wearily. 'I've had it up to here with _daggers_ and _prophecies_ and _letters_...'

Hermione paused in her frenzied search to look up at her friend in amazement. '_Ron_,' she said, in what was almost a whimper, 'the auditions are _tonight_!'

'Yes, and you've already got it all perfect,' Ron pointed out. 'You've been going over it every spare minute; you're making my head hurt. Give it a rest.'

She finally located the book, but paused before she drew it out, brushing an errant strand of bushy hair out of her eyes and biting her lip. 'I _know_,' she said after a pause, 'and I know I've got it all memorised but I'm still terrified and-'

'And you know what Hermione's like,' interrupted Harry. 'Trying to stop her being nervous is like trying to stop the tide...'

'Water-freezing charm.' Ron muttered.

'... so you may as well let her be and stop trying to get her to be normal.' Harry finished. 'Besides, even if you do stop her, everyone else is practicing. You can't escape it.'

It was true. The corridor outside the Potions classroom was usually filled with gossip and conversation while the class awaited Snape's arrival; their collective tone light-hearted on normal days, fearful and timid before tests. Today most of the students were focused on their soliloquies: muttering or whispering the words under their breath, making vague motions that were pale shadows of the ones they intended to make, the ones that played so wonderfully in their minds. Some were reading from jealously snatched library copies of the play; others from their own editions, owled from home by excited parents; and a handful who were unable to get hold of a book were reading from sheets of parchment onto which their soliloquy had been copied by hand.

'Great,' Ron grumbled, leaning back against the wall as both his friends drew out their books, Hermione with a half-apologetic grin, and began reading. 'Just great.'

'Well, it was your choice not to audition...' Harry began, but the rest of his sentence trailed into nothingness as the other students fell silent. Snape was stalking down the corridor towards then, robes swirling around his feet, a dark look upon his face.

He drew up sharply and addressed the class. 'I do not wish to see,' he said in a low, clear voice, 'any poor players strutting and fretting their hour upon the stage in my Potions lesson. Anyone whom I find practicing their lines, or reading the play, or anything in any way connected to tonight's auditions, will lose twenty points for their house. As such, I recommend you put your scripts away_ now_.'

He accompanied this command with a harsh glare, and the gathered students hastily slipped books and parchments into their bags. Malfoy, always defiant of Snape's commands – and always allowed to be, too – kept his copy out, swinging the slender black book carelessly in his fingers. Snape gave it a passing glance and no more.

'Biased git,' Ron whispered to Hermione as the students began to file into the classroom. 'If any of us had kept their book out we'd have lost those points. More, too. Bloody...'

Snape eyed him with a baleful look at this point, and Ron shut up immediately. The impending auditions and the fuss over the play seemed to have put the Potions professor in a terrible mood.

The class soon settled into the lesson, working quickly on their potions. Snape, in a vindictive mood, had set them one that caused the drinker to lose their voice if they made it incorrectly. Thankfully, everyone's concoctions looked fine. No one had tested Snape's temper by reading Macbeth, with the exception of Draco Malfoy, whose eyes were feverishly flicking over the lines as he stirred his cauldron.

Ron was not impressed. 'Snape's not even paying any attention to him,' he hissed to Hermione as she started to slice her boxwood leaves. 'I wish I didn't have to take Potions. Greasy git of a teacher. I wish I'd failed the OWL, then I would have an excuse not to take it...'

'And then you would have a huge range of jobs closed to you.' Hermione whispered back. 'Like being an Auror, or a Healer, or...'

'Alright, alright, I know,' Ron replied with a grimace. 'I just wish the Potions teacher wasn't an overgrown, greasy bat who's practically having an affair with Malfoy...'

'Mr Weasley,' came Snape's voice from behind them, silky-cold and filled with a bitter kind of annoyance. Ron jumped and looked round guiltily; Hermione assumed her firm you-deserve-what's-coming-to-you face, and carried on slicing the leaves. Harry caught Ron's eye with a sympathetic look, but knew better than to intervene.

'Yes, professor?' Ron asked nervously, crossing his fingers tightly.

'Twenty points from Gryffindor, and detention. Tonight, during the auditions.' Snape said swiftly, then turned and stalked away, leaving Ron to fidget nervously.

'That's really unfair,' Hermione whispered next time it was possible. 'I mean, stopping you going to the auditions!'

'I wasn't going to go anyway,' Ron pointed out. 'I don't want to be in the play...'

'Yeah, but he didn't know that. You might have done,' Harry said, before Snape cast one of his most malicious glares at them, and they carried on in silence for the rest of the lesson.

* * *

'Good evening, everyone, and thanks for coming to the auditions,' Megan began, the commanding tone in her voice causing a hush to fall over the nervously fidgeting students. 'Has everyone signed the attendance lists? Good. Could you pass it here, please?' Susan Bones, who was sitting nearest to it, hastily did so before sitting back down with a squeak.

To say that everyone was terrified would be an understatement in some cases; a complete lie in others. Slightly more than half the auditioning students were as pale as lilies in the flickering candlelight that lit the waiting room. Padma Patil looked close to hyperventilating; a trio of fifth-years were clinging far too tightly to each other's hands, and Ernie Macmillan was gripping a rather dog-eared copy of the play as though it were a lifeline.

The rest of the students were fairly calm, either through over-confidence or because they weren't really worried about whether they got a part or not. Malfoy, flanked by Blaise Zabini and Pansy – Crabbe and Goyle were not attending – seemed to fall into the first category; leaning back in his chair with his head tossed back arrogantly, surveying Megan and the other directors behind her with cool disinterest. His egotism made Hermione's hand twitch reflexively towards her wand in the same way that she would automatically scratch an itch; his attitude made her want to hex him until cauliflowers grew out of his ears...

Megan was speaking again.

'Before we begin the auditions,' she was saying, 'I thought I should introduce you to my co-directors and myself, as the five of us will be judging your performances jointly. My name is Megan Montgomery of Gryffindor house. This,' and she indicated a slightly rounded girl wearing a kindly smile who reminded Hermione of a younger, brunette Molly Weasley, 'is Ruth Fairbairn, who's in Hufflepuff.'

Ruth gave them all a wide and reassuring smile at this; some of the students found themselves smiling back automatically.

Megan moved on to indicate a wiry boy with loose auburn hair, who was wearing a rather fetching pastel yellow scarf – the room was a bit chilly – and a wide, genuine grin. 'And this is Stanislaus Flores, who prefers to be known as Stan, also a Hufflepuff.'

'Don't worry, petals,' Stan cut in, 'you're all going to be _magnificent_.'

Ginny and Luna, who were sitting a few seats away from Harry and Hermione, shared amused glances at this, but Megan had already moved on.

'This is Olivia Voss, who's in Ravenclaw,' she announced, putting a hand on the shoulder of a girl who looked like nothing so much as a blonde, blue-eyed porcelain doll; she had been standing to the rear of the group, but gave everyone a smile.

'And over there,' Megan continued with a note of distaste, making a vague gesture in the direction of the fifth director, 'is Adrian Blackwood. Slytherin.'

Adrian, who was slouching against the doorframe with a look of sullen boredom on his face, raised a lazy hand as a general acknowledgement of the introduction. Megan's features darkened briefly, before returning to the auditioning students with her previous smile restored.

'Now that the introductions are done, we can start the auditions. You will each be called, one by one, into the classroom next door, where all five of us will watch and make notes on your performance. We'll do the boys first, alphabetically, and then the girls. When you've finished your audition, please return immediately to your house common room, because we're borrowing these rooms from Professor McGonagall and she doesn't want anyone spending longer in them than they need to.'

Harry and Hermione shared a disappointed glance; Hermione had hoped to be able to ask Harry how his audition had been while she was waiting for her own.

'Okay, I think that's everything. Stan will call you one by one into the audition room. Good luck, everyone!'

She handed the attendance list to Stan and headed for the door, followed by Olivia, Ruth and the surly Adrian. Stan drew his wand and cast '_Ordino Litterarum_' with an extra flourish of his wand, putting the names on the parchment into alphabetical order, before addressing the students with a wide grin.

'Okay, now I don't want any of you being nervous, because you're going to do absolutely brilliantly. You've nothing to be scared about, sweethearts,' he told them with a beaming smile, before glancing at the list. 'Terry Boot? You're first!'

Terry got to his feet slowly and nervously, with nervous good-luck wishes from his friends, before following Stan out of the room. 'So you're in Ravenclaw? Fabulous hou-' they heard Stan begin to say, before the door closed and they could hear no more.

The atmosphere became increasingly uncomfortable after that, as people sat and fidgeted beneath a tense silence. Sporadically, someone would attempt to start a conversation, or recite their soliloquy quietly to themselves; but the conversations dwindled like a dying fire and when the soliloquies ended, no one tried to start again. Even the over-confident and the people who didn't care much were subdued and silent. Harry kept twisting his hands together, one over the other, his gaze focused on them alone. Only Malfoy made any pretence at being unruffled, leaning back in his armchair with an insolent expression, but the twitch of a muscle or the tic of an eyelid would periodically give him away.

The tense silence was only broken by Stan, who appeared every few minutes to fetch the next person to audition. He seemed infallibly chatty and friendly, which at the very least prevented the atmosphere from falling into irretrievable nervousness. And every time he returned, another nervous, clammy-palmed boy hurried off to his audition with edgy 'Good luck! Break a leg!' wishes from his friends.

Malfoy, of course, swaggered off like he owned the world. Or, at the very least, attempted to swagger; he didn't quite manage it. Then the list went through the N's, the O's, and finally into the P's.

'Harry Potter?' Stan called, with the customary quick glance at Harry's scar and a wide, beaming smile. 'Your turn, flower,' and then Harry was gone, so Hermione went to sit with Luna and Ginny. Luna was unaffected by the atmosphere of fear; the look in her eyes as she gazed languidly at the nervous students was much like that of someone musing on a favourite piece of art, or a beautiful poem. Ginny was acting more normally, giving Hermione a nervous grin as she took a seat.

The remaining boys dwindled until there were only girls remaining, and then the girls began to dwindle too. The D's passed by, then the E's, then the F's, and finally...

'Hermione Granger?'

She stood up, received Ginny's 'Good luck!' and Luna's 'Break an arm', and headed to the auditions feeling as though her heart was going to crack through her ribcage at any second. There was a curse to make that happen, she remembered, outlawed and classed as Dark Arts in 1767...

The door closed behind her.

'Don't panic, you'll be just fine,' Stan was saying with a reassuring smile. 'Oh, and don't pay any attention to Adrian, all right darling? He's been in a bad mood all evening, one of the fifth-years was in tears because he started glaring at her, poor darling...'

And with that, he opened the door.

It was quite a large room, though bare and unfurnished apart from the bare necessities for the auditions. Directly in front of Hermione were four large tables, pushed together to make a makeshift stage; the directors were sitting at her left around a fifth table, facing the stage, with reams of parchment stacked in piles and rows across the desk.

That curse – the one that made your heart break your ribcage, the one that Hermione would be completely certain was being used on her now unless she knew that Hogwarts was filled with Dark Arts detectors. What was it called?

'Hermione,' Megan smiled reassuringly, 'thanks for coming. Would you like to step up onto the stage and do your piece? Oh, Stan, pass her that piece of parchment for the letter, would you?'

Stan handed her the parchment and gave her a cheery thumbs-up as he sidled into his seat. Hermione fixed her eyes on the stage She could do this. She'd practiced it plenty of times; she had it all word perfect.

The _Déchirant_ Curse, that was it; _déchirant_ being French for heart-breaking, as it was invented by an unknown French wizard. Perhaps an ancestor of Malfoy's, even: Malfoy was a French name after all, so his family must have originated in France. And his family did have quite a history of Dark Arts, from what Hermione had heard, and why on earth was she thinking about Dark curses and Malfoy's ancestors?

It was some kind of response to anxiety, Hermione realised; she did the same thing all the time in frightening situations; ran over useless information and facts and knowledge in her mind, and she supposed it helped, because knowledge always reassured her.

She took a deep breath and climbed up onto the stage – there were no steps, but a handily-placed chair served the same purpose. Picking up the parchment, she assumed her starting place on the stage – far left, just walking onto the scene – closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

In her head, the scene unravelled before her as clear and sharp as a Potions lesson. Emphasise this, pause here, speed up there, slow down at this part. Sound incredulous, excited, thoughtful, pleased; this gesture and that movement and these expressions. What does Lady Macbeth think, and feel, and want...?

Unconsciously Hermione's posture changed; her eyes took on a different sheen, and when she opened her mouth to speak her words came easily, naturally, fluently.

'They met me in the day of success...'

* * *

Half an hour later, she was sitting in the common room with Harry – Ron wasn't back from detention yet – sipping a mug of hot chocolate and nervously going over her audition in her head.

'I didn't sound power-hungry enough,' she fretted. 'I should have played that aspect up more, and I didn't manage to...'

'Hermione,' Harry said patiently, 'ten minutes ago you were worrying that you'd been _too_ power-hungry. You said you hadn't focused enough on the other parts of the speech...'

'Well, I _didn't_ focus enough on them...' Hermione protested quietly, before Harry gave her an incredulous look and she realised she was being nonsensical. 'Okay, okay. I'll stop going over it. But I still don't think I did well.'

'You were amazing,' Harry said firmly. 'You were amazing when you were practicing and I don't see any reason why you wouldn't have been just as amazing in the audition. End of story.'

Hermione didn't agree – she hadn't thought she'd been more than acceptable when practicing, and she'd probably been even worse in the audition out of nerves. But she didn't argue; it would only annoy Harry.

'What time's Ron supposed to be coming back from detention?' she asked, changing the subject. Harry frowned and glanced at his watch.

'Well, he's been down there for about two hours... depends what kind of a mood Snape's in, I suppose.' Harry said. 'He could keep him ages...'

He was cut off by the sudden opening of the portrait and the rather dramatic entrance of Parvati; biting her lip, her arms defensively folded, chin raised and looking for all the world as though she was going to burst into tears at any moment. Not meeting anyone's gaze, she headed swiftly across the common room towards the staircase to the girls' dorms.

'Parvati!' Lavender shouted, struggling her way out of a tight knot of people and hurrying over to cut her off at the bottom of the stairs. 'Parvati, calm down, please...'

'It was awful,' Parvati said, her voice a few octaves higher than usual, and stared determinedly at the place where the wall of the room met the ceiling, over Lavender's head. 'I forgot my lines, and my voice was shaking, and...'

She started shaking then; Lavender pulled her in for a tight hug and gave a desperate glance around the common room. Her eyes fell on Hermione with a pleading expression, a wordless _please come and help me!_ Hermione sighed.

'I'd better go see if she's okay,' she said to Harry, giving Lavender a nod and getting to her feet. 'If she doesn't calm down she'll be in floods all night...'

Harry nodded his understanding, and Hermione headed over to where Lavender was attempting to soothe her friend. 'And then that Slytherin boy, you know, one of the directors, he was sneering at me and looking so horrible and it was awful, Lavender, I'm never going to get a part...'

Hermione stepped up and put a kindly hand on Parvati's shoulder. 'Come on now, don't get upset. Stan told me Adrian was like that with _everyone_. He even made one of the fifth-years cry.'

'I nearly cried,' Parvati said, but it was muffled by Lavender's shoulder. 'It was dreadful.'

'I'm sure you weren't as bad as you think you were,' Hermione assured her, though privately she thought that anyone who forgot their lines and almost burst into tears onstage had no chance. 'Shall we go up to the dorm? We can talk about it there.'

Fifteen minutes later, when she'd left an extremely thankful Lavender and a calmer Parvati drinking hot chocolate together over the latest issue of Witch Weekly (distraction tactics: always worked) Hermione returned to the common room to find Harry deep in discussion with Ginny, Dean and Seamus.

'The thing it, it's very hard to know when you're acting right,' Ginny was saying. 'It might feel like you're acting it right, but you can't see yourself, so you don't know. I suppose you could get someone else to watch you, put the memory in a Pensieve and let you watch it, but it'd be hard to get hold of a Pensieve... or you could get one of those Muggle things, what are they called...' She mimed holding something up to her eye and filming Dean. 'Dad had one a few years ago, never figured out how it worked...'

'A video camera?' Dean asked, and Ginny nodded.

'That's the one. But it wouldn't work around Hogwarts, of course, so it's pretty pointless thinking about it,' Ginny sighed. 'I did try using a mirror, but it doesn't work because you have to keep looking at yourself all the time, and you can't act while constantly looking in one direction.'

'You could come up with some kind of recording charm,' Hermione mused thoughtfully, 'I'm sure there must be something in the library if you looked...'

'I might do, if I get a part...' Ginny said thoughtfully. 'It would be useful... anyway, Hermione, how was your audition?'

'Well, _I_ think I messed it up,' Hermione began, 'but Harry's been saying-'

'That you were brilliant before the audition and I don't see any reason to think you weren't brilliant in the audition,' Harry interrupted firmly. 'Besides, you kept contradicting yourself...'

'Only once,' Hermione said firmly. 'Besides, I didn't sound power-hungry enough...'

Dean sighed, leaning back in his seat. 'Honestly, Hermione, you do this every time something important happens.'

'Do what?'

'Go on about how awfully you did, and then find out a week later you got three-hundred percent and the best mark of all time,' Dean said with a raised eyebrow, and was met with appreciative laughter from the others. Hermione frowned.

'I don't _always_,' she said, instantly regretting it – she sounded rather whiny and childish. 'Okay, I suppose I do. But I get nervous, and then I start worrying, because I could do really badly one day and then...'

'Pigs would sprout wings and the Daily Prophet's headline story would be that Lucius Malfoy had opened a foster home for sick puppies,' Harry cut in, one eyebrow raised, not noticing Seamus and Dean's reflexive twitches. Lucius Malfoy, along with a group of other well-known Death Eaters, had broken out of Azkaban a few weeks before the start of term and presumably rejoined their master. With Voldemort's return now believed and recognised by the Ministry, the Death Eaters had begun openly attacking Muggle or Muggleborn families; the attacks were approximately every fortnight, in varying sizes. There hadn't been a major attack for well over two months, but there had been minor ones with single families victimised.

Harry's attitude to this seemed to be to ignore it, talking about Voldemort and his followers just as he always had; Hermione often wondered whether this was from a true lack of fear, (doubtful), an attempt to sound brave and unconcerned to the others in an attempt to raise their morale (possible) or an attempt to make himself feel less afraid (also possible). 'I'm certain you were brilliant, and don't you dare deny it,' Harry continued firmly.

'Alright,' Hermione said reluctantly. She didn't believe him, but arguing further would be pointless; it was best to let it lie.

'Excellent,' Dean said with a grin. 'Now, Seamus – I'll give you a Chocolate Frog if you do that impression of the dagger scene with a Scottish accent. I've been in stitches all day remembering that...'

With the promise of chocolate, Seamus got to his feet, and the Gryffindors spent the rest of the evening as they usually did – joking, laughing and enjoying themselves.

* * *

**AN: **And that concludes another week's chapter. Next week comes what you may or may not have all been waiting for: the casting is announced!

Do you know what I'm going to ask you to do now? Review! Or I'll make you do my Biology homework (monosaccharides, anyone?)

Review!


	3. Act One, Scene Three

Macbeth: Act One, Scene Three

**Disclaimer:** Anyone who thinks I own Macbeth is going to get very seriously laughed at, as I am not male, called William, or dead. Anyone who thinks I own Harry Potter is also going to get seriously laughed at, because although I am both female and alive, I'm not called Joanne.

**Thanks for 73 reviews goes to:** jules37, midnight-blue, willowfairy, brettley, Madam Midnight, Orchid6297, SycoCallie, Kou Shun'u, Flexi Lexi, mesmer, citcat299, RedWitch1, KrystyWroth, I-luv-Harry-Potter-Romance, Scaz85, ablakevh, Meghan, SPARKLING EYES, Storm079, foxer, gummybear, Go10, kurt (x3), draconas, cherristiz, heavengurl899 (x2), sugar n spice 522, Janie Granger, MsLessa, Genevieve Jones, PhAnToM-ChiK, ToOtHpIcK (x2).

**A/N:** Congratulations to everyone who spotted Snape's reference to the 'Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow...' speech!

Oh, and before I forget, I have to correct something: I don't have anything against Americans whatsoever. I know at least one of you thought that because I had Seamus doing the soliloquy in an American accent, but I also had him doing it in a Scottish accent, and while I'm not Scottish myself I'm probably as close as I can get, having a Scottish surname and owning a kilt in my family tartan. So really, it's nothing personal against the American or Scottish peoples; its just that, to an English person, it would sound amusing to hear something like Shakespeare read in an accent they're unused to. Try imagining the same soliloquy read in an English accent and see if it doesn't make you smile.

Those of you who are starting to get Macbeth and Fallen confused had better take a few seconds to get them straight now, before they read the first line. That really confused one of my betas...

Got them straight? Excellent. On to the fic: enjoy!

* * *

The wizarding world was overdue for a Death Eater attack.

Since the fight in the Department of Mysteries when Voldemort's return had been revealed to the world, the Death Eaters had no longer needed to operate in secret. Every week, or every fortnight, there was an attack of some kind. Usually just one or two families; a Dark Mark on the front of the paper and a day spent on edge, twitching at the noise of every shadow.

There hadn't been a small attack for two weeks, and the last large scale attack had been just over two months ago, shortly before the beginning of term. The Daily Prophet had been filled with articles on the sudden decline in attacks. In their eyes it could mean only one thing: the Death Eaters were preparing for something large.

It was with this in mind that the population of Hogwarts sat down to eat dinner in the Great Hall that evening. The ceiling was already a restless black, smoke-like clouds writhing across the sky and obscuring the distant stars. The conversation was quieter than usual, slightly muted, although there was still the occasional outbreak of laughter at a joke, still an undercurrent of lively chatter.

It was because of this that, when Dumbledore slowly got to his feet, the room was silent before he'd fully stood up, all eyes on him and all the students fidgeting. He gave them all a kind smile, to show that he didn't bear bad news, and began.

'I have been asked by the seventh-year Muggle Studies students,' he said, 'to ask those of you who auditioned last week to remain behind after dinner for the announcement of the casting.'

There was an instant of tension before whispers broke over the Hall, nervous and excited and terrified. Hermione, sitting with Ron and Harry at the Gryffindor table, bit her lip and tried to stay calm.

It was a horrible feeling; she both wanted to know if she'd got a part and desperately wanted to avoid having to find out. And the waiting; the anticipation was almost worse than the event. What if she hadn't got a part? What if she'd got some tiny, minor part, and had to watch at rehearsals as the better actors paraded across the stage? Could she stand that without being horribly jealous? What if she got a large part, a major part, and then couldn't handle the rehearsals and learning her lines until she had to opt out, letting everyone down?

Ron must have noticed her nervousness, because he gave her a reassuring pat on the back and said, 'Don't worry, you'll have done brilliantly.'

She gave him a smile before returning to her food, but she'd lost her appetite. Harry, sitting opposite her, appeared to have lost his as well.

The meal somehow managed to pass both too quickly and excruciatingly slowly; rather like a combination of continental drift and light-speed. But eventually the younger students began to drift off in ones and twos, and the directors shared glances over the house tables. Megan got up first and made her way to the front of the Hall, where only Dumbledore and McGonagall were remaining. Stan, Ruth and Olivia followed, with Adrian joining them a short time later. Hermione watched them nervously from the corner of her eye as the final few students left.

'I bet you've got one of the really good parts,' said Ginny, who had come to sit with the seventh years as the table cleared. Hermione picked at a piece of carrot and waited as Dumbledore smiled benignly at Megan and left, shortly followed by the bustling McGonagall.

She was rather startled when Adrian suddenly spoke, his tone sharp and irritated. 'Okay,' he said, 'I'd like to get this over with, so anyone who didn't audition, get out. Now.'

He glared at a pair of Hufflepuff second-years, who scurried away from their table, before Ruth caught his elbow and whispered something. He shook her off and turned his glare onto an innocent Ravenclaw.

'I'd better go,' Ron muttered, giving Hermione, Harry and Ginny a grin. 'Don't worry. I'll be waiting outside for you, alright?' Surreptitiously, he half-pulled a flesh-coloured string – an Extendable Ear – out of his pocked, winked at them, and walked off.

Only the people who auditioned were left now; they slowly began to gather round the front of the Hall while Megan and the other directors clambered onto the slightly raised platform on which the teachers' table stood. Hermione glanced around the crowd, and was slightly relieved to find that she wasn't the only one who looked nervous. Harry's lips kept tugging back into the corner and Ginny's freckles stood out sharply. Even Malfoy looked afraid; he was ghostly white and kept worrying at his lip.

Stan stepped forwards to address them. 'Thanks for staying behind, petals,' he began with a wide grin, the kind that immediately made everyone feel reassured. 'All your auditions were just wonderful, and we had a really hard job deciding who should get which part. Megan's going to read out the list in a moment, and before you get upset, sweets, it's just in the order we picked the characters in, and we reversed it so that the smaller parts came first and the big parts came last because it's so much more exciting that way. And I just want to say that absolutely _everyone_...'

'Stan?' Megan said quietly, stepping up behind him and tapping his shoulder with a small smile. 'Perhaps I could actually read the cast list?'

'Oh, of course, sugar,' he said, stepping back to let Megan take centre stage. The tension, momentarily lessened by Stan's speech, began to build again.

'Without further ado,' Megan said, 'I'd like to announce the casting. Lennox will be played by Terry Boot; Menteith by Seamus Finnegan...'

The two boys immediately let out a loud whoop that forced Megan to pause; their respective friends congratulated them, patting their backs. Hermione fidgeted nervously, wondering if she would get the same congratulations, or be consoled on not getting a place.

Megan finished with the various lords and continued. 'The Gentlewoman will be played by Padma Patil, the Old Man by Michael Corner, and the Porter by Zacharias Smith...' More cheers, more congratulations, more screams. Hermione's awareness of the lists of names and parts began to wear thin; she listened intently, but only for her own name or the names of her friends. All other information passed straight through her brain, lost as useless information.

'The First Witch will be played by Blaise Zabini, the Second Witch by Ginny Weasley, and the Third Witch by Luna Lovegood.'

Ginny shrieked and grabbed hold of Luna, half-whirling the Ravenclaw around. Luna smiled, disturbingly widely, and said she was pleased. Harry congratulated Ginny too, giving her a warm smile, and Hermione gave her a hug. Ginny was a good choice, really, and Luna would pull off a mystical Third Witch rather well. Blaise Zabini was an interesting choice, though; Hermione didn't really know much about her except that she was in Slytherin.

'Banquo will be played by Justin Finch-Fletchley, Lady Macduff by Susan Bones, and Macduff will be Harry Potter.'

Harry looked absolutely amazed; it was Ginny, still on a high from her own casting, who half-leaped on him and hugged him tight. Harry absently hugged her back, a grin slowly splitting over his face as he realised what had happened. As soon as a beaming Ginny loosed her grip, Hermione hugged him herself.

'That's brilliant,' she told him warmly, 'Macduff! It's a brilliant part, oh, you'll be wonderful! I _have_ to find this article I read...'

He gave her a cheeky grin, beaming like the cat that got the cream. Hermione felt genuinely pleased for him; the same pleasure she felt when Harry or Ron got exceptionally good marks on a test. She liked it when her friends did well.

'Macbeth,' Megan began, and the room fell instantly silent, 'will be played by Draco Malfoy.'

Hermione gasped, there was an outbreak of whispers, and the Slytherins cheered and clapped Malfoy on the back. Malfoy himself seemed to be taking the role as his due, smiling easily and lazily and accepting the congratulations of his fellows as though they were trifles.

'Wonder who he bribed to get in?' Harry muttered close to Hermione's ear, green eyes narrowed.

'And finally, Lady Macbeth will be played by Hermione Granger.'

'...Oh,' she managed to say, very quietly, before Harry let out a wild cheer and practically jumped on her with delight. It took Hermione a few seconds before her brain stopped feeling as though it had completely ceased to work; and then her first thought was panic: how would she balance rehearsals with schoolwork, what if she messed the acting up, what if she kept forgetting lines, or couldn't act any scene other than the audition piece...

'I _told_ you you'd do brilliantly!' Harry said, beaming, while Ginny took her turn giving Hermione a congratulatory hug before slipping off with Luna into the crowd. 'Lady Macbeth, I knew you could do it...'

'Thanks,' she managed, still feeling rather overwhelmed. 'I'm still not sure I'll be good at it, really, I mean... oh no.' Hermione's eyes had fallen on Malfoy, who was leaning against the wall on the other side of the hall and giving her a very amused smirk. Her heart sank. '_Malfoy_.'

'What about him?' Harry looked confused for a moment, then realised. 'Oh. He's Macbeth...'

Malfoy, seeming to have noticed that the two Gryffindors were talking about him, raised an eyebrow and fixed a malicious gaze on Hermione. All her dreams about acting, glorious and confident in front of a crowded audience of spectators, began to melt and blacken as her imagination began to fill in the details of the scene: Draco standing before her, smiling that same evil, cruel smirk under the bright glare of the stage lights and how could she act the part of his wife when she hated him so much.

'Hermione?' Harry was asking, and she forced herself back to the real world, where Harry was standing in front of her looking concerned. 'Are you okay? I mean, he can't do anything _really_ bad, they'll throw him out of the play...'

'He'll do something,' Hermione said sharply. 'Just look at him. He's going to do something, you can tell...'

'Hermione,' Harry said in a placating tone, 'you'll be fine. Just tell the directors or one of the teachers if he does anything. Do you have even have many scenes together?'

'Four with just us two, and two more with lots of others on the stage,' Hermione said after a second's thought, 'and he's going to make it hell, he's going to be there in all the rehearsals and he isn't going to let a chance like this go past without doing something... even if he just insults me all the time, that'll be bad enough...'

'If he does that, just go to one of the directors,' Harry said again. 'They won't let him stay if he really messes it up...'

Hermione wasn't listening; her gaze with locked with that of Malfoy and she was glaring back at him. 'I've made a decision,' she said to Harry, 'I'm not going to let him ruin this for me. I'm going to ignore anything he does to annoy me.'

'Good idea,' Harry said, 'and I think...Rachel, was it? She's trying to get your attention, anyway.'

Hermione glanced sideways and saw Ruth standing by the side of the stage, beckoning to both herself and Malfoy. 'Her name's Ruth,' she said. 'I suppose I'd better go... wait for me?'

'Sure,' Harry nodded, and she began to make her way over to the Hufflepuff; on the other side, from the corner of her eye she could see Malfoy doing the same. They reached her at the same time, and Malfoy tilted his head to one side and gave her a distinctly amused look; Hermione glared back and turned her attention onto Ruth.

Ruth gave them both a warm smile, her cheeks dimpling as she did so. 'Firstly, congratulations on getting your parts,' she said. 'Your auditions were both spectacular, and we're confident that you'll make a very good Macbeth and Lady Macbeth.'

Malfoy acknowledged this with a nod; Hermione with a smile. Ruth continued. 'Secondly, we are aware that you two have rather a... history of not getting on together, shall we say. We hope that, as you're both sixth-years now, you'll be able to get over that for the sake of the play.' Hermione nodded, but doubted very much that they would: she was perfectly willing, but any hand of friendship she extended towards Malfoy would be quickly transfigured into something slimy.

'You will, of course, be working together quite a bit – being the two main characters of the play – so we expect you to meet up outside rehearsals when you can and discuss your parts, how you're going to be acting them, do a few practices... things like that.' Ruth said. 'There's going to be a meeting on Saturday to discuss rehearsals, scripts and so forth, so I suggest the two of you meet sometime before then to discuss things. This evening?'

'I can't,' Malfoy said smoothly, 'I'm busy. Too much homework...'

'Tomorrow evening? In the library, at seven?' Ruth was persistent.

'That's fine with me,' Hermione said quickly, and Draco nodded his assent.

Ruth smiled at them again. 'Good. Congratulations again!' she said, before turning to leave.

Draco threw Hermione a smirk. 'See you tomorrow, _my lady_,' he said mockingly, before turning and swaggering towards the doors, leaving Hermione frowning after him.

Harry came up behind Hermione, a raised eyebrow asking what Ruth had wanted. Hermione sighed. 'She was basically saying she wanted us to bury the hatchet, as it were,' she explained. 'And we all know the only way to get Malfoy to bury the hatchet would be if he was burying it in my head. Anyway, we're supposed to be meeting tomorrow evening...'

'What for? To kill each other?' Harry shook his head. 'You can't make friends with someone like Malfoy. He's pure son-of-a-Death-Eater scum, he'll never change.'

'I know, so I'll just have to put up with him,' Hermione sighed. 'And look on the bright side, you get to kill him in the play.'

'I do?' Harry asked, and grinned. 'That'll be good. Maybe I can accidentally use a real sword instead of the fake one and run him through... that'd solve the problem.'

Hermione laughed. 'Except that Macbeth dies offstage. You do get a bit of a swordfight, though; you could do it then and claim it was an accident.'

'A miserable and tragic accident,' Harry nodded. 'Come on, Ron will be waiting.'

* * *

'Bloody Malfoy.'

Hermione sighed, taking a sip of her Butterbeer. 'Yes, Ron, we know,' she said. 'We know you want to cut him into little pieces and feed him to the squid, we also know you hate his guts, stomach and pretty much every part of his anatomy. Forget about Malfoy, will you? We're supposed to be _celebrating_.'

They had been celebrating almost all evening. Hermione had once again had to help Lavender console a miserable Parvati, but once she'd pointed out that just because she didn't have a part didn't mean she couldn't do _anything_ to help with the play (I'm sure they'll need people to help backstage, Parvati. Or you could ask if you could help design the costumes!) Parvati had cheered up.

Afterwards, Hermione had returned to the common room to find her friends celebrating around the fire. Ginny had persuaded Harry to sneak down to the kitchens under his Invisibility Cloak and get some Butterbeer, and now almost everyone had a bottle. They'd saved one for Hermione, of course, and had insisted on yelling 'All hail, Hermione!' when she came in the room. After that they'd gathered round the fire to discuss various people's parts and the play in general. Of course, Malfoy's role had been a major topic of conversation, and Ron had been grumbling about it for half the evening.

'Sorry, Hermione,' he said, giving her a faintly apologetic half-smile. 'But I bet he bribed someone to get him in, it's exactly the kind of thing he would do....'

'Maybe he blackmailed them,' Seamus said, grinning wildly with the light of a conspiracy theory in his eyes. 'Maybe he snuck into the bathrooms and took photos of them all naked... oh, hey, Lavender,' he said as the slender girl approached them. 'How's Parvati?'

'Still a bit upset,' Lavender said, 'but she's okay now. Doing some homework before she goes to sleep. Hey, is that Butterbeer? Any left for me?'

'I think so, Harry has it,' Seamus replied. 'Oy, Harry!'

Harry was sitting right next to the fire, rather deeply immersed in a book Hermione had leant him. It discussed the role of various different characters in the play; Harry was quite deeply immersed in the chapter on Macduff. Seamus's shout caught his attention, though; he looked up, blinking slightly, and asked, 'What?'

'Pass Lavender a Butterbeer, would you?' Harry did so and returned immediately to his book. Seamus frowned.

'Is it just me, Harry,' he asked, 'or is your hair turning brown?'

'Brown?' Harry asked, forgetting his textbook again and pulling a strand of hair in front of his eyes, examining the colour with quite a worried look on his face. 'It looks as black as ever to me...'

'Really? I could have sworn you were starting to turn into Hermione,' Seamus finished with a pointed look at the textbook, earning him a round of laughter and a righteous cushion in the face from Harry.

'What were we talking about?' Harry asked, putting his textbook down.

'Malfoy,' Ron said promptly. 'And how he bought his way into playing Macbeth.'

'Or blackmailed. By taking photos of them naked.' Seamus was quick to add.

'Or perhaps he's genuinely good at acting,' Ginny offered. 'We may never know.'

'Good at acting?' Ron asked, looking mystified. 'The ferret?'

Ginny shrugged. 'He could be.'

Lavender, meanwhile, was looking thoughtful. 'Megan Montgomery was one of the directors, wasn't she?' The others nodded, and Lavender looked pleased. 'Well, that explains it. I heard that in the summer after second year Megan spent ages at Draco's house.'

'So they were friends? Are friends?' Ron asked. 'And he got in because he knows one of the directors? That's bloody typical.'

'I don't know, Megan seems nice,' Hermione found herself saying. 'I don't think she'd let someone in just because they were her friend. Not into a lead role, anyway, perhaps into a very minor part, but...'

'Are you suggesting the Ferret's actually good at something?' Ron asked in mock horror.

'Well, he'd have to be, to get the part,' Hermione replied thoughtfully, taking a sip of her Butterbeer. 'I hope he is, anyway. It'll be a lot easier acting with him if he's at least half-decent at it. At any rate, I'm _not_ going to let him spoil this for me. We'll just... have to learn to work together, that's all.'

'You've got more chance of getting me to think spiders are cute,' Ron said darkly.

'Well, spiders _are_ cute,' Seamus said. 'Lee Jordan's tarantula was cute. All furry. And it had these really sweet little fangs, and eight hairy legs...' Seamus gave Ron a mischievous grin; Ron turned quite pale and shuddered.

'Oh, leave him alone, Seamus,' Lavender cut in. 'It's not nice. Phobias are horrible things...'

'Do you have one, Lavender?' Hermione asked, curious.

'Snakes,' said Lavender, shivering. 'And heights.'

The conversation turned to phobias after that and then to Boggarts, and then to professor Lupin, and then to Defence against the Dark Arts in general, and then to a competition about who could come up with the most creative way of using hexes, Hermione barely even noticed the group around the fire dwindling as, one by one, people got up from their seats and said their goodnights before heading to the dorms. Finally, after Ginny excused herself from an intensive conversation on the merits of cats as opposed to owls, Hermione realised that the common room was almost empty except for herself, a few stragglers from the various years, and Harry, who was still sitting in his place by the fire, staring at his book in a way that suggested he wasn't even seeing it.

'Harry?' Hermione asked, frowning, getting up from her place to walk over and take the seat beside him. 'I thought you'd gone to bed hours ago... Harry?' He wasn't paying attention: she waved her hand in front of his face and he jumped.

'What? Oh... Hermione,' he said, blinking at her, then scanned the common room looking confused. 'What time is it?'

'Just past eleven,' Hermione told him. 'You should go to bed... are you okay?'

Harry didn't answer for a moment, looking down at his book; he ghosted his fingers along a line like a caress. 'Yeah, I'm fine,' he said quietly.

Hermione had known him long enough to be able to tell when he was blatantly lying. She followed his fingers across the page to see what had caught his attention: _When acting Macduff, possibly the hardest scene to perform is Act IV, Scene III, in which Macduff learns of the death of his family._

Hermione bit her lip, suddenly realising he incredible irony: Macduff's family was all murdered, and so had Harry's: first his parents, when he was a baby, and now Sirius. Tentatively, she reached out a hand, rested it on his arm.

'Harry...' she began, not knowing what to say. It had been months since Sirius' death; Harry had been miserable and angry and guilty, especially over the summer, and Ron and Hermione had worried about him a lot. After returning to school he'd been better, normal most of the time, but sometimes there was a look on his face or a moment like this one when something would remind him, something would show that the memory of Sirius' death hadn't completely gone. Hermione doubted it ever would; Harry would always bear some mental scars from that day.

'I'm fine,' Harry said again, looking up and giving her a sharp smile, one that looked like broken glass in the ruddy light of the dying fire. He closed the book. 'Really. It's just... sometimes I remember, and it's hard to...'

He broke off, and Hermione slipped her arms round him and pulled him into a tight hug before she had time to think. 'Just remember you can talk to us,' she said quietly. 'Ron and I, we're always here...'

'I know,' Harry replied, patting her back before drawing away. She bit her lip, and he gave her a nervous smile. 'I'm fine, I promise. And thanks. I think I ought to go to bed, it's late...'

'Okay,' Hermione said, nodding, 'if you're sure. If you need to talk...'

'I know, Hermione, I know,' Harry said, with what was almost a real smile, before getting up and heading off to the boys' dorms with a warm, 'Goodnight.'

Hermione watched him go, frowning and wishing she could do more to help than offering him a hug and a reassurance. But, realistically, there was very little she could do. And Harry would be okay in the morning.

* * *

**AN:** Yes, Hermione and Draco's parts were completely obvious, but the scene had to be done, didn't it? Macduff!Harry was also a casting which couldn't be resisted... Obviously due to space constrictions, I didn't put the whole cast list in this chapter, but rest assured that I have the entire thing saved on my computer and colour coded by house of the actor/actress. Because organisation is fun.

Anyway, no prizes for guessing what I'm going to say now: review! Next chapter is up on Monday, and there will be some good solid Draco/Hermione interaction. Review, or I'll send the Gryffindors to hex you so you can speak in nothing but Shakespeare quotes. Which... would actually be really fun, but might get annoying after a while. So review!


	4. Act One, Scene Four

Macbeth: Act One, Scene Four

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter belongs to the wonderful JKRowling; Macbeth belongs to the incomparable Shakespeare. I wonder how Shakespeare would feel about this collision of the two? Then again, he's already spinning in his grave so fast from so many other mutilations of his works that it's a wonder he hasn't taken off into orbit like a helicopter yet.

**Thanks for 104 reviews goes to:** SycoCallie, ablakevh, midnight-blue, Storm079, draconas, Madam Midnight, RedWitch1, KrystyWroth, Stoneage Woman, innocentteen, MsLessa, Mjade-1, lazy, heavengurl899, Janie Granger, SPARKLING EYES, willowfairy, Rebecca15, Genevieve Jones, gummybear, NotYourAverageSchoolgirl, sugar n spice 522, Jeni, foxer, I-luv-Harry-Potter-Romance, brettley, mrazzle, Crystallized Snow, Sparkling Cherries, citcat299, FalconWing.

**AN**: I have to admit that I was rather amused to see how many of you quailed in horror at the thought of speaking in a Shakespearean style, while an equal amount of you were wishing there really were such a spell... And on the topic of doing silly speaking things, which some of you reminisced about: I once decided to use the word 'truffle' in ever sentence I said. This led to our ex-biology teacher being known as 'the disturbed truffle' because our class was waiting outside the lab and she came out and yelled at us, saying 'I am being disturbed! And I whispered to my friend, 'Yeah, mentally disturbed truffle.'

Anyway, staying on topic: Blaise. Yeah, I know JK said s/he's actually a boy, but I dislike the fact that she actually told us. It was one of the greatest and most fun mysteries of the HP world, and now it's gone. So this is partly in protest, and partly because I think a female Blaise would make a great First Witch.

And about Macbeth quotes: basically I'm using them where they fit. Which means there were a couple in the first two chapters, none in the last chapter (or this chapter). Next chapter will have one in, as will some other chapters. Some chapters will have multiple quotes. It all depends where they fit.

And that's enough rambling from me: onto the story. Enjoy!

* * *

The next day was one of those days where you get the feeling you should never have got out of bed in the morning; it would have been far easier to stay buried in the blankets and write the whole thing off as a cosmic mistake.

It started as soon as Hermione opened her eyes to the sound of Parvati sniffling and complaining quietly to Lavender that, 'I don't mean to be jealous of Hermione, really I don't, it's just that I really wanted to be Lady Macbeth...' She'd carried on for the whole day, glaring at Hermione in lessons, at meals and in the common room, before realising that she shouldn't be jealous and giving her a sickeningly guilty smile. Hermione would almost have preferred unequivocal, outright envy.

On top of that, the news circulating the breakfast tables was that there'd been another attack – two families, both with Muggleborn or half-blood parents, quite close to London. Seven people dead, two of them under the age of eight. The school was on edge, fearful whispers about it being passed in the corridors, the names of those dead passed from one to the other like a litany.

Harry was withdrawn and quiet – he always was when there was an attack – and Hermione knew from experience there was no point in trying to talk to him, though she worried about him as always.

And then, of course, seven o'clock rolled round and she had to go to the library to meet Malfoy.

She really and sincerely hoped that he was at least a good actor. If he was, then maybe they could just focus on the acting and forget their hatred of each other, at least for a while. If she could see him as Macbeth and not as Malfoy they'd manage.

It was only when she reached the library that she realised, in their haste to get away from each other, they hadn't specified where in the library they'd meet. It was a very large place, so big that first-years occasionally got lost in it. He could be anywhere, and to confound the problem she didn't know if he was here already or not. If they both came and started looking for each other they could wander round the bookshelves for hours. Equally, if she picked a table somewhere and sat down, he could do the same and they'd also never find each other. She considered waiting at the entrance, but if he was in there already, waiting for her...

What would Malfoy do? He certainly wouldn't wander round a library looking for a lowly Muggleborn: he was spoilt and arrogant, and he'd expect her to come to him. Also, he'd want to make it difficult for her: it would amuse him greatly if she turned up half-an-hour late, tired and hot from wandering fruitlessly round the library.

She mentally catalogued all the places Malfoy might choose to hide, and set off to search them all. To her great satisfaction, she managed to find him within five minutes at the back of the Arithmancy section, sitting in one of the plushest, softest leather armchairs, his feet elegantly resting on a low table, his pristine copy of Macbeth in one eerily slender hand.

He looked up, raising an eyebrow. 'So, Granger,' he opened with no preamble whatsoever, 'how does it feel to be a Mudblood playing the part of nobility?'

'Much the same as I imagine it feels to be a Pureblood playing the part of nobility,' she said dryly, swinging herself into the seat furthest away from Malfoy.

'Except that I'm actually of a noble bloodline, and thus qualified to play the part of Macbeth, while you are a mere filthy Mudblood,' Draco said with a sneer. Hermione, already irritated and on edge from the stressful day, simply snapped.

'Oh, yes, I can see how your ancestry makes you perfect for the part, considering you're all a bunch of Dark wizards who go around _murdering_ people, and that's _exactly_ what Macbeth does!'

Malfoy froze, a red and angry flush spreading along the tips of his cheekbones, a sharp contrast to the almost-white skin that covered the rest of his face. His cheek twitched; he looked as though he were about to explode.

'You Mudbloods deserve everything you get,' he said, voice dangerously low and so icy that Hermione shivered, afraid. 'Everything. You deserve to be wiped off he face of the earth like vermin, that's all you are, _vermin_!'

He was shouting by the end, loud enough to cause Madam Pince to throw them both out if she were nearby. 'We're in the _library_!' Hermione said sharply. 'Don't shout!'

'I'll do whatever I want to, Granger,' Malfoy said, the red flush beginning to tinge his cheeks and his eyes flashing like poisonous mercury. He pushed himself roughly to his feet, grabbing his schoolbag from under the desk and opening it, throwing his copy of Macbeth into it. 'And I'm going, I'm not-'

'Stay,' Hermione commanded, quickly catching hold of his sleeve. Malfoy tried to tug away, but she held on fast. 'Look, I don't know what I said...'

'Really? I had no idea you were quite that stupid, Granger,' Malfoy spat.

'Okay, I do know what I said,' Hermione said, trying to keep herself calm. Inwardly she was frightened; she'd never seen Malfoy this angry, this enraged, and she didn't know what he was capable of. 'But I didn't mean it. I was angry and upset and I've had a stressful day, and I just snapped out the first thing that came to my head. I'm sorry, okay? Now will you sit down so we can talk about whatever it is we're meant to be talking about?'

'No,' Draco replied curtly, trying once again to tug away. 'I'm not staying...'

'Malfoy!' Hermione said, a sharp reprimand. 'We have to work together on this, you know, and it won't work if we can't be at least civil to each other...'

'You weren't being very civil when...'

'And you weren't being civil when you called me a Mudblood,' Hermione interrupted. 'Besides, I apologised. Now will you please sit down?'

Sullenly, he did so, glaring balefully at her. 'This is not going to work,' he pronounced simply.

'Yes, it will.' Hermione said firmly. 'I'm not going to let you ruin this for me, Malfoy...'

'Me ruin it for you?' he asked. 'What about me, having to have a filthy _Mudblood_ as my partner?'

'Malfoy.' Hermione said warningly. 'Look, if we're going to do this without murdering each other, we have to be civil. That means you don't call me a Mudblood. And I won't insult your family. We'll leave bloodlines entirely out of the conversation, alright?'

He glared at her, looking as though he were seriously considering the murder option. 'Agreed,' he said eventually. 'And the less time I spend talking to you, the better.' His hand, which was lying on the table, gave a sudden twitch.

'Believe me, Malfoy, I feel exactly the same,' Hermione said. 'Shall we discuss Macbeth?'

'I suppose we'd better get it over with,' he grumbled, pulling his book back out of his bag and opening it. 'What exactly are we meant to discuss?'

'Just the play in general,' Hermione said. 'What we think about our characters and their relationship to each other.'

Malfoy leant back in his chair, tipped his face slightly upwards and sighed. 'Very well. Describe what you think, and kindly be quick about it. I don't wish to spend any more time in your... _presence_... than is strictly necessary.'

Hermione frowned, bit her lip, and began. 'Well, I see Macbeth as being the victim of the play, really, he's completely controlled by his evil wife and, to a lesser extent, the witches...'

Malfoy interrupted. 'Granger, could you be any _more_ of a stereotypical Gryffindor? Poor, innocent Macbeth, seduced into doing wrong by his evil wife...' He gave her a sarcastic sneer.

'I didn't say that,' Hermione cut in, annoyed. 'I never said he was innocent, he's guilty of murdering Duncan as well. But he only did it because of Lady Macbeth.'

'Do you see everything in black and white?' Malfoy asked. 'Macbeth thinks of murdering Duncan ages before Lady Macbeth even mentions it to him, right after the witches made their prophecy.'

'But not seriously,' Hermione protested, 'he thinks of it for a moment and then rejects it. The thought of it even scares him; if it hadn't been for Lady Macbeth he'd never have thought of it again.'

Malfoy answered her with a quote. 'Stars, hide thy fires; let not light see my black and deep desires,' he said. 'That's before he first spoke to his wife: he _keeps_ thinking about it. How can we say he wouldn't have killed Duncan without her?'

Hermione noted, almost subconsciously, that the line Malfoy had quoted wasn't in the audition soliloquy; that meant he'd read the play before, and well enough to quote it at will. Which meant he was at least somewhat serious about this play: that relieved her slightly. 'Because he always sounds afraid of carrying the act through,' she pointed out. 'Hence telling the stars to shed no light so that his desire to kill Duncan isn't seen. He wants to keep it hidden; it's not likely he'd ever carry it through.'

'But he keeps thinking about it,' Malfoy persisted. 'The idea keeps wearing at him, like an itch that won't go away. After a few weeks of that he'd be ready to murder,' he said, glancing at the table.

'Perhaps,' Hermione admitted, 'But I still think he wouldn't. It's a passing fancy, nothing more.'

Malfoy shook his head. 'The point I am trying to make,' he said, 'is that he's not all goodness and light. He may not have the... nerve to kill someone, at least initially, but that doesn't make him good. He's weak-minded and easily swayed by his wife.' He paused for a moment in thought. 'She isn't evil either.'

'What?' Hermione asked incredulously. 'Of course she's evil; she's the one who persuades Macbeth to kill Duncan! You can't get much more evil than killing an old man just to take his throne.'

'And yet,' Malfoy mused, 'she can't kill Duncan with her own hands, and she goes mad from the guilt of the various murders. Someone who is truly evil doesn't feel for their victims, doesn't go mad thinking over what they've done.' For a moment his eyes glazed over, oddly distant, then he came back to himself. 'Look, he said,' we've discussed it. Let's agree to disagree, and then we can get out of this accursed library and I can get away from your Mudblood presence.'

'I thought I said not to call me that name,' Hermione said, glaring at him across the table. He ignored her, getting to his feet and swinging his bag onto his shoulder.

'True evil also never keeps its promises,' he said dryly, before turning his back on her and walking away.

Hermione frowned after him, sighed and rested her head on the table, in her arms. This was going to be difficult.

* * *

For the next three days Hermione tried to avoid Malfoy, on the basis that the less time she spent near him, the less he could annoy her, and the more chance they'd have of getting along civilly. It worked fairly well; they never saw each other, except in the classes they shared and one accidental encounter in the library.

When they had bumped into each other, Malfoy had generally thrown her a sarcastic comment, which she'd replied to, and then they'd both got on with what they were doing. It was all slightly awkward: they could no longer be outright enemies, but neither were they willing to be anything more than vaguely civil to each other.

Of course, they'd have to meet again for rehearsals at some point, and then she wouldn't be able to avoid him. She didn't know quite how they'd manage then – either they'd be able to work together or they'd end up degenerating into utter hatred of each other. While she couldn't see them ever getting on, she was equally determined not to let their disagreements and the fact that they hated each other get in the way of their acting. Perhaps they'd manage some kind of median, some situation where they weren't at peace but weren't at war either. An uneasy kind of truce, with the occasional insult or mockery being exchanged. It was something realistic to hope for.

And so, when the word came around that the directors had called a meeting to discuss the play and rehearsal schedules, she found herself faintly optimistic.

'After all,' she told Harry as they made their way to the meeting, 'it can't be too bad. If we just keep the insults and arguments down to a manageable level – we won't be able to stop them completely – I think we can handle it. I mean, we're both adults now. We can handle working together on a play.'

'Hope you're right,' Harry said with a dubious look on his face as he pushed the door to the meeting room open. 'I don't know, he's never been reasonable in the past...'

'Harry, Hermione,' Megan greeted them both with a smile. 'Come and sit down, we're just waiting for the last few people...'

The meeting was in the Muggle Studies classroom, which looked eerily similar to a Muggle classroom: the walls had been plastered and painted in a shade of white, and what looked like Muggle electric lights hung from the ceiling. There was a shelf of books, a few prints of famous Muggle artwork, and a flashy poster describing Wizarding Law as it related to Muggles. Other things included an actual television set and a half-built radio languishing on the windowsill. Obviously none of the electricity worked in such a high magical field: Hermione wondered how they made the lights work or how the television was operated. Some tricky and advanced magic, no doubt – she made a mental note to look it up in the library.

The desks had been arranged in a rough horseshoe, and they quickly took a place next to Ginny, who had been chatting with her friends from other houses and thus had come down to the meeting on her own. Malfoy, Hermione was pleased to note, was on the opposite side of the room, lounging in his chair and looking bored.

Finally, the last few stragglers hurried in apologetically, and the meeting began.

'Thanks for coming, everyone, and well done again for getting your parts,' Megan said, rising to her feet. 'We've got copies of the scripts for everyone, to ensure we're all using the same version. Olivia, if you'd like to give them out?'

Olivia did so, handing the crisp, clean copies of the scripts around the cast. Crackles of parchment and whispers slowly filled the room as people began to look through their scripts: Hermione watched the approaching pile of scripts hungrily, and when someone passed her a script she fairly fell upon it and began reading through it insatiably.

'I thought so,' she whispered to Harry, 'they've taken the Hecate scenes out.'

'Hecate?' Harry asked, before remembering. 'Oh, that witch who someone else added in...'

'Whom some critics _think_ was added in,' Hermione corrected, still browsing her copy. 'We can't be certain, but as she serves no real purpose and some critics consider the style in which her parts are written to be quite different to the style of the rest of the play, it's often thought they were added in. Oh, good, the Porter's speech is still there...'

Hermione got quite absorbed in the script after that: apart from the text of the play, they also contained a cast list, a schedule planner for rehearsals and a few useful footnotes to the text, among other things.

'Has everyone got a script?' Megan asked, rousing Hermione from her thoughts. 'Good. Moving on: we wanted to talk about rehearsals and rehearsal times. For the first week or two we're going to go through each scene, making sure everyone has the right idea and getting some basic thoughts about how you're going to be acting your roles. After that, we're going to have as many practices as we can, but which scenes get practiced most will obviously depend on which scenes we need to improve most. We also recommend that you get together with those people you have scenes with and practice on your own. Obviously, that'll be easier for the smaller scenes with fewer people in, but I'm sure you can manage to practice some of the larger scenes too. The first rehearsal is tomorrow evening for the three witches at seven o'clock, if that's alright with you?'

She glanced at Ginny and Luna, then across the room to Blaise: all three nodded. 'Good. Rehearsals will take place in here until we get closer to the first night and start getting the stage set up in the Great Hall, which brings me nicely onto my next point: the stage design. We're still discussing this, so we want your input as well.' Megan twisted round in her seat. 'Olivia? Do you want to tell them about the stage?'

Olivia looked up, appearing slightly startled, before nodding and folding her hands in her lap. 'We were originally thinking of having a basic stage, as it would be a lot easier to build, but after discussions in class we decided we preferred the idea of having a type of balcony,' she said in her quiet voice. 'It would run around the back and both sides of the stage, and there'd be access from both backstage and the stage itself. It'd be used for some of the witches' scenes, as well as a few other occasions. We haven't decided about entrances to and from the stage or balcony itself yet, other than that we'd like some entrances to both the right and left, and one entrance at the very back of the stage.'

There were some whisperings among the cast as Olivia finished speaking. The idea of a balcony level sounded fascinating to Hermione: she wondered what scenes they would use it for. She could picture the witches prowling around on it. Perhaps Lady Macbeth could sleepwalk along it, or the doctor and gentlewoman could stand there and watch as she made her way across the stage...

'Does anyone have anything to say about that idea?' Megan asked, and the room fell slowly silent with the same kind of edginess you get in a classroom when a teacher asks a question that no one wants to answer.

'Come on, we don't bite,' Stan said with a grin, which made a few people laugh, and then a couple of hands went up.

People said pretty positive things, although there was some debate about where entrance doors should be. They liked the balcony, and by the time they finished discussing it practically every scene in the play must have been nominated to take place on the balcony – though of course, only some suggestions were thought merit-worthy. Hermione had offered her thought about the sleepwalking scene, which the directors had seemed to approve of.

'Is that all about the stage?' Megan asked eventually, when the constant stream of comments had tailed off. 'Alright, that's all-'

'Finally,' muttered Adrian, who'd been sitting in the corner looking surly. Megan threw a dark glare at him and continued.

'_Unless_ there's anything else anyone wants to bring up?'

There was a moment's pause, then Malfoy slowly raised his hand. 'I've always felt that the death of Macbeth was a little unfulfilling for the audience,' he began in his accustomed drawl. 'We never get to see his death: only to see Macduff walk on with his head. I watched a production a few years ago which altered this very slightly so that Macbeth died onstage, which improved the ending considerably. I'd suggest we do the same thing here – if you approve, of course.'

Hermione was surprised, considering who was talking, to find herself nodding in agreement. She'd never thought in great detail about Macbeth's death, but now that Malfoy – of all people! – mentioned it, she realised he was right. It wasn't necessarily _unfulfilling_ as it was currently, but seeing Macbeth die on stage would be an improvement, certainly...

The directors seemed to be reaching the same decision. Megan glanced at her fellows, who all nodded, apart from Adrian who yawned. 'Do other people agree, or would you rather it stayed the same?' she asked.

Hermione glanced at Malfoy and decided to make a strategic move: if the two of them were to get on... 'I agree,' she said, raising her hand slightly. A few others did the same, following her lead, and no one was against it.

'We'll look into doing that, then,' Megan said with a smile for Malfoy. 'Anything else?'

No one volunteered anything. 'Okay, that's that, then. Witches, remember to be back here at seven o'clock tomorrow; everyone else, we'll get details of rehearsals to you. Anyone in the cast who wants to come and watch the rehearsals can do so. Goodnight and thank you for your time.'

* * *

**AN:** That's that chapter done: and next time, we begin Act Two. There will be five 'acts', just like in Macbeth, but they won't necessarily be the same length or contain the same general story arc. Just to warn you.

Now then, I'm sure you all know the drill by now. Review, or face a horrible consequence. I believe the threat for this chapter will be... let me consult my Sadist's Guide. Having the sound of nails scraping across a blackboard played to you continuously until you review. I think that should be sufficient.  
  
_Scrape. Scrape. Scrape._ Review!


	5. Act Two, Scene One

Macbeth: Act Two, Scene One

**Disclaimer:** JKRowling owns Harry Potter. I was quite tempted to not disclaim Macbeth and see if Shakespeare would actually sue me from beyond the grave, but eventually decided that rather than risk the return of a zombified Shakespeare seeking to eat my brain in vengeance, I'll just say I don't own it.

**Thanks for 137 reviews goes to:** SycoCallie, Rebecca15, plumsy321, Go10, samhaincat, Janie Granger, Jenie, Nikki, Madam Midnight, innocenteen, gummybear, FalconWing, midnight-blue, mrazzle I-luv-Harry-Potter-Romance, the hope conspiracy, draconas, RedWitch1, KrystyWroth, Stoneage Woman, MsLessa, sugar-n-spice522, langocska, willowfairy, bluefiredragon4131, foxer, ablakevh, Athena Linborn, kessi1011, Genevieve Jones, Pho3nix, heavengurl899.

**A/N:** And on to Act 2! In which we get more of that Hermione/Draco interaction we all love, and lots of other fun things I can't tell you about yet. Well you wouldn't want to spoil the surprise, would you?

Anyway, I have nothing much to say (except that I saw my niece again over the weekend and she was, of course, even more adorable.) Oh, yes, and there are Macbeth quotes in this chapter, for those of you who are interested in spotting such things. Onto the story. Enjoy!

* * *

'Is Thursday evening okay for you?'

Ginny frowned, twisting a curl of her hair around one finger. 'Depends what time. I'm meant to be meeting Luna and Blaise at eight...'

'Which is pretty much the only time I can manage a practice,' Harry replied, frowning. 'And I can't do Wednesday, I'm practicing that scene in Act Four...' He sighed, folding his arms. 'This play's going to play havoc with Quidditch practices, you realise?'

'You'll just have to schedule them better,' Ginny said thoughtfully from her perch on the arm of an overstuffed chair. 'I don't think I have anything planned for Friday evening...'

'Yes, but half the rest of the team's in this play as well,' Harry replied. 'And I bet _someone_ will have a rehearsal then... we'll say Friday, and I'll tell everyone to try and keep it clear.'

Hermione glanced up from her book as he got to his feet. 'You'd better be quick about it, if you want to go and watch the first rehearsal with us,' she pointed out.

'Or in my case, act in the first rehearsal,' Ginny grinned, swinging her legs. 'I'm not sure whether to be terrified or excited...'

Harry looked torn. 'If I'm too long finding people, go down without me,' he said at length. 'I'll make my own way there. When are you planning on going down?'

'About ten minutes?' Hermione offered after a quick glance at her watch. 'If you're quick, you can make it. If not, I'll save you a seat.'

'Thanks,' Harry said with a grin, before hurrying off in search of the rest of the team.

'He won't manage it,' Ginny said, watching him as he dodged around a maze of armchairs. 'There's too many people to go round, and I know they aren't all in here...'

'Then we'll save him a seat,' Hermione replied. 'Do you think many people are going to come and watch?'

Ginny thought for a moment, eyes looking upwards and forehead slightly creased, before answering. 'Well, it's cast-only, but I think at least half the cast is planning on watching. Because it's the First Rehearsal... it does make me feel a bit nervous.'

'Having people watching you?' Hermione asked, and Ginny nodded. 'Don't be nervous, I'm sure you'll be brilliant. Besides, it's not like you're ever going to be the _only_ one on stage...'

'I guess...' Ginny began doubtfully, but was interrupted by Dean as he threw himself dramatically into the chair she was sitting on the arm of. He grinned.

'Hermione! I've been looking everywhere for you...'

'She's not exactly hiding from you,' Ginny pointed out, and Dean rolled his eyes.

'Anyway, you know how Padma's the Gentlewoman and I'm the Doctor in that sleepwalking scene?' he continued.

Hermione guessed where he was going. 'You want to practice it?'

Dean nodded. 'I've asked Padma and she can do any day but Wednesday this week. I can do any day, but I really don't like doing Fridays, so can we try to avoid that?'

Hermione nodded. 'Any time's good for me. Is Padma going to watch the rehearsal? We could practice straight after that, if you wanted.'

'I think she's coming...' Dean said slowly. 'We'll see when we get there. Tonight sounds good to me.'

'Tonight, then,' Hermione echoed with a nod, 'If Padma can.'

'Hermione?' asked Ginny after a moment's pause, rearranging herself more comfortably on the arm of the chair. 'Do you know how often you're going to have to rehearse with Malfoy?'

'I haven't a clue, but I think it'll be quite often,' she replied. 'We do have a lot of scenes together... though some of them are with other people. You have scenes with him as well, you know. Harry has too.'

Ginny made a face. 'Yeah, but he gets to kill him,' she pointed out. 'I just lead him down the road to murder and madness. Which is fun, yes, but not quite so satisfying as running him through with a big sword.'

* * *

Five minutes later, Harry still hadn't returned, so the three of them bade their way slowly down to the Muggle Studies classroom. Ginny became more and more nervous with every step she took.

'I wish it wasn't our rehearsal first,' she moaned as they entered the classroom. Some desks had been pushed together to form a makeshift stage, as they'd done on the night of the auditions. The desks in this classroom, however, were smaller and more rickety; Hermione felt quite worried they'd fall to pieces the instant someone stood on one.

The directors were standing to one side of the 'stage' and chatting to Blaise – except for Adrian, who was lounging on a battered chair, looking bored. Ginny gave Hermione a nervous smile, a 'Wish me luck!' and quickly dashed off to join them.

'Where's Padma?' Dean asked, scanning the small rows of battered chairs that had been set up in front of the stage. 'Can you see her anywhere? I should ask if she's free afterwards...'

'Is that her?' Hermione asked, pointing to someone in the front row. Dean grinned.

'Yep, it is. Hang on a minute – Padma!' he called, hurrying off to ask

She was free, it turned out, and then Luna arrived with her usual dreamy look on her face and the rehearsal began properly. Hermione quickly took a pair of seats on the second row – one for herself, one for Harry – and watched.

* * *

'Can I have your attention for a minute?' Megan asked the crowd an hour later as they began getting up from their seats. 'Tomorrow at the same time we're doing Act One, Scene Two, which means we need Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Lennox, the Sergeant and Ross. Are all of those here? No? Could someone tell the others... thank you. The day after it's Scene Three, which means we need the witches again, as well as Macbeth, Banquo, Ross and Angus. Seven o'clock, again. Thanks.

She jumped down from the stage and conversation sprung up: Ginny rushed towards Hermione and Harry, her face glowing.

'You were brilliant,' Harry congratulated her, and she beamed with pride.

'Thanks, I was really nervous but I think it went well, and Blaise actually seems all right, if a little – you know – cold?' Ginny began rambling. 'But I think we'll manage.'

'Well, I thought you were working together well in that rehearsal,' Hermione said. 'Though of course it could be different when it's just the three of you...'

'Let's hope it isn't. Come on, let's get back to the common room, I'm exhausted. I feel as if I could sink into one of those big comfy armchairs and sleep for a week,' Ginny said, already making for the door.

Dean and Padma were hovering nearby, chatting quietly; Hermione gave then a quick smile to let them know she hadn't forgotten the meeting. 'Do you mind if I go?' she asked. 'Dean and Padma are waiting... we're practicing the sleepwalking scene.'

'Oh yeah, I'd forgotten about that,' Harry replied. 'How long do you think you'll be?'

'Probably an hour or so. Go on, they're waiting. See you later,' Hermione replied, and headed over to Dean and Padma.

'Hermione!' Padma greeted her. 'Well done on getting Lady Macbeth, by the way.'

'Thanks,' Hermione replied, 'you did really well, too.'

Padma disagreed. 'It's only one scene,' she pointed out, 'so it's not really that much. But I didn't really expect to get anything, I mean, I've never done any acting before and I'm not very good, so the Gentlewoman...'

'Granger.'

The voice that interrupted Padma was cold, and drawling, and easily recognisable. Hermione turned to see Malfoy standing behind her, one eyebrow raised. 'Or should I say, 'my lady'?'

Hermione gave Dean and Padma an apologetic look. 'Excuse me a minute, would you?' she asked quietly. Dean nodded, and Hermione turned to face Malfoy, already feeling irritated.

'Did you wan something?' she asked, attempting to keep her voice civil but unable to hide a bitter undertone.

'Just to ask when we should meet again, that's all,' he said carelessly.

His speech was so like the first witch's opening line – _when shall we three meet again _– that Hermione couldn't help continuing the theme. 'In thunder, lightening, or in rain?' she asked.

Malfoy sneered. 'I'm not particularly interested in seeing you 'ere the set of sun, Granger. Twice in one day would be too much.'

Behind her and to her left, she heard Dean mutter something – probably something quite rude about Malfoy – and Padma stifle a giggle. Hermione reminded herself that she had to put up with Malfoy for the foreseeable future, took a breath and carried on.

'I'm busy today, anyway,' she replied. 'Tomorrow, same place, same time?'

He gave her a brief nod. 'Fine,' he said sharply, before walking on past her as though she were nothing, leaving Hermione frowning after him.

'Hermione? Are you ready to go practice?' came Dean's voice. 'Or are you planning to do something incredibly violent and painful to Malfoy, because if you are, don't let me stop you.'

She shook her head. 'Sorry, no violence today,' she replied, giving Dean a smile. 'He's just incredibly annoying... anyway, shall we find somewhere to practice?'

'There's an empty classroom near the Ravenclaw common room that's hardly ever used,' Padma contributed. 'We could use that, if you wanted.'

'Sounds great,' Dean replied. 'Lead the way.'

* * *

Acting with Padma and Dean was a little more difficult than Hermione had anticipated – Padma had the habit of drifting into a vague monotone every five minutes, while Dean exaggerated everything when nervousness got the better of him. However, Hermione felt their faults were more than made up for by the fact that the sleepwalking scene was, to put it simply, fun.

It shouldn't be, she reflected, but it had been. Imagining herself sleepwalking through the empty castle with a slender candle, dreaming of murder and blood and guilt. Morbid, yes, but exciting.

They'd agreed to wait until after their first proper rehearsal to meet again before splitting up and going their separate ways. Hermione only wished she had more scenes with them and fewer with Malfoy. But Malfoy was Macbeth, and she was Lady Macbeth, and there was really nothing she could do.

Their next meeting seemed to loom ominously on the horizon all that evening and all through her next day's lessons, until seven o'clock arrived and she was forced to head for the library, feeling both anxious and hopeful.

He was sitting at the table, his copy of Macbeth open in his hand – because of course he'd never use the common, plebeian copy of the play that everyone else had if he could help it – skimming lazily over the lines. He looked up as she approached.

'Granger,' he said with the very slightest nod of his head.

She'd replied, 'Malfoy,' in almost identical tones to his – cool and neutral – and slid into the seat opposite him, before digging through her bag and pulling out her script.

'I assume we should start with our first scene? Act One, Scene Five,' he said, and without waiting for her agreement, continued. 'Ignore your parts with the letter, the messenger and you rambling on about the spirits taking your milk for gall; we should just go from the part where I come in.'

From anyone else it would have sounded like a perfectly reasonable suggestion: after all, Malfoy wasn't involved in those earlier bits, so there was no point practicing them with him. Malfoy's tone gave it another message, implicit: _Ignore your parts; after all, you're a worthless Mudblood. Not important. I'm a Malfoy, and a Pureblood: do the parts that concern me._

Hermione took a deep breath and told herself she was being ridiculous, even though she didn't believe she was. After all, it was a sensible suggestion, and she'd look incredibly childish if she argued with it. 'Very well,' she said. 'How shall we do it? Should we start just reading them aloud, and move onto movement afterwards?'

He shrugged. 'Fine,' he said. 'You begin.'

His tone was dismissive, and Hermione glared at him as she realised he was _trying_ to make her feel worthless. She wouldn't let him. She had to show him up, show that she was good enough to be Lady Macbeth...

She cleared her throat, steadied her nerves – not easy with him sitting across from her, one eyebrow raised as if amused – and began. 'Great Glamis! worthy Cawdor!'

'Granger,' he interrupted, before she could say another word, 'do try to make more of an effort.' He smirked. 'My lady.'

She threw him a fierce glare. 'I _am_ making an effort,' she said hotly, 'and I might be able to make a proper effort if you'd actually let me say more than half a line.'

'And I might actually let you say more than a line if you sounded halfway acceptable,' Malfoy drawled. 'You are supposed to be greeting your...' He shuddered delicately, and Hermione had to restrain herself from slapping him. 'Greeting your _husband_, after hearing that witches have prophesied that he will become king, planning to murder the current king, and calling upon evil spirits to make you completely heartless. In such a situation, I'd expect you to show some kind of passion or excitement.'

'I was showing excitement,' Hermione replied, trying extremely hard to keep calm.

'Not enough,' Malfoy replied with an oddly cold half-smile. 'Try again.'

She did, five times, until he actually let her get on with the rest of her greeting. When it was finally his turn to speak, she was determined to find something wrong with his acting, even if he managed to deliver his single line with an unparalleled perfection.

'My dearest love,' he began, before Hermione interrupted.

'I was under the impression we were performing Macbeth,' she said, 'not Romeo and Juliet.'

Draco glanced up from his book and actually smiled; a cold and rather glassy half-smile. 'Yes, Granger? You have a problem?'

'Simply that you sound far too... romantic,' Hermione said firmly. 'You're meant to be-'

'Greeting my dearest love?' Malfoy asked in a slow drawl. 'I don't see how I'm meant to sound unromantic there... oh, wait. I'm speaking to _you_. I should be vomiting. My dearest...' He paused, making retching motions.

'Grow up, Malfoy,' Hermione said, feeling her face flush slightly. 'This is meant to be serious.'

'I am being serious,' he protested, giving her a completely innocent look. 'I think I need to go and see Madam Pomfrey before I throw up.'

He smirked once, before picking up his book and continuing to read. 'My dearest love-'

'You sound exactly the same,' Hermione interrupted.

'You never explained why I shouldn't,' Malfoy pointed out. 'I think it's a perfectly sensible tone of voice to use...'

'Well I don't.' Hermione replied, meeting his eyes with a challenging gaze; there was a few seconds pause.

Malfoy glanced back at his book. 'We can ask the directors when they schedule us to do this scene,' he said simply. 'My dearest love, Duncan comes here tonight.'

Surprisingly, the rest of the scene went without much further ado, except that Hermione kept glaring at him over the top of her script and he kept giving her amused, sarcastic glances which were somehow incredibly provoking.. After a few run-throughs, they left that part for the proper rehearsal – which would probably happen later that week – and went on to Act One, Scene Seven. They left out Malfoy's soliloquy at the beginning, at Hermione's suggestion this time, and began from Lady Macbeth's entrance.

'How now! what news?' Malfoy asked.

'He has almost supp'd: why have you left the chamber?'

'More annoyance, Granger. Anger.' Malfoy drawled, and biting her lip to keep from making a sarcastic comeback, she said the line again. He may be an annoying, sarcastic prat, but his reading of the play showed that he at least wasn't an idiot; he knew what he was talking about.

'Hath he ask'd for me?'

'More interest, Malfoy,' Hermione ordered, an exact mimicry of his earlier sentence. He repeated his line, just had she had.

They carried on like that for a while – speech, short periods of criticising each other, sometimes whole lines without a remark. Hermione had a fairly long part to struggle through with him making corrections. Somehow whether the correction was right or not didn't matter; each made it without protest and carried on. It was a kind of warfare.

Hermione finally came to the end of her long part, and Malfoy spat an irritated 'Prithee, peace' in such an annoyed tone that even Hermione couldn't find fault with it. But the next line didn't come; there was a long pause. Hermione looked up from her script to find Draco staring at his book, a far away look on his face, something sharp and sudden and quite unpleasant.

'Malfoy?' she found herself asking, and he started.

'What?'

'You were staring,' she said, frowning. 'At the script. Is something...?'

He shook his head, allowing himself a little aristocratic laugh. 'My dull brain was wrought with things forgotten,' he explained with an amused look; a rather sharp glint in his eyes.

Hermione gave him a suspicious glance, but didn't say anything, and he carried on after a pause. 'I dare do all that may become a man; who dares do more is none.'

They continued for the rest of the scene as before: viciously correcting each other, throwing smirks and glares across the table. They did make progress, actually: Hermione was aware that Malfoy's suggestions were often useful, interesting at least: but the cruel manner in which he made them was uncalled for.

But as they were nearing the end of the scene, it happened again; midway through a line. 'When we have mark'd with blood-' Malfoy said, and stopped, staring at the book as before, his face pale.

'Malfoy?' Hermione called again, somewhere between annoyance and worry. Mainly annoyance. 'Malfoy!'

He jumped. 'What!'

'You were staring at the script. Again,' Hermione said firmly. 'What's wrong with you?'

'Nothing,' Malfoy said, waving a hand through the air as though to brush it all away. 'When we have mark'd with blood those sleepy two-'

'Something, obviously,' Hermione interrupted. 'And if it's affecting your acting, I think I have a right to know.'

Malfoy sighed, managing to give even that simple sound an air of annoyance, and said, 'To put it simply, Granger, I'm tired. I didn't sleep well last night. Now can we get on with the acting?'

She gave him a suspicious look. 'Alright. Go on,' she said. 'And get some proper sleep next time, for goodness' sake.'

* * *

**A/N:** And that's all for this week. Come back next Monday for more Macbeth fun! And of course, sometime in the period between now and then, you're going to review. Yes, you ARE going to review. Do you need me to hypnotise you into doing it? Fine. Watch the watch... you're getting sleepy... you're asleep. Now, when I clap my hands you will wake up and review this chapter. You will remember nothing of what I have said do you. Now... CLAP!


	6. Act Two, Scene Two

Macbeth: Act Two, Scene Two

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter is owned by JKRowling, while Macbeth was written by Shakespeare. I think someone should copyright the English Language, and make everyone else pay them money to use it. Then in these disclaimers we'd have to add, 'And the English language is owned by Joe Bloggs'. In fact, I think I should copyright the English language. Excuse me...

**Thanks for 197 reviews goes to:** langocska, samhaincat, MsLessa, bluefiredragon4131, plumsy321, sugar n spice522, Kanochi, Rebecca15, Janie Granger, midnight-blue, Nikki, kessi1011, brettley, Anigen, Kou Shun'u, SycoCallie, gummybear, citcat299, PhAnToM-ChiK, FalconWing, toothpicks, draconas, Alaawya, mesmer, RedWitch1, KrystyWroth, Elysium, Stoneage Woman, ToOtHpIcK (x2), Go10, annikodomo, willowfairy, ablakevh, Silvestria (x5), Crystallized Snow, Genevieve Jones, heavengurl899, I-luv-Harry-Potter-Romance, Sparkling Cherries, foxer, Flexi Lexi (x3), insanemaniac, Jessica, Jaid Ziaen, Natalie Garner, storm (x2), Opalfire.

**AN:** For anyone who's interested in quote-spotting; there was a woven-in one last week which no one spotted. Shame on you all!

As to my favourite authors – in fanfiction, it has to be the famous (or infamous, depending on your point of view) Cassandra Claire. She does things with words and plots and characters that make me go all tingly (there's a running joke among certain of my friends that I'm not attracted to neither men nor women, but in fact to words. A wordosexual, as it were.) As to published authors... well I couldn't list them all! JK, of course, along with Terry Pratchett. I enjoy Orson Scott Card, Catherine Webb, some Garth Nix, Diana Wynne Jones, Peter Dickinson... I have far too many books.

For those who want to read the play, buying a copy isn't neccecary! You can find it on the web quite easily. Type Shakespeare into Google and the fourth website down should be 'The Complete Works of William Shakespeare'. The full text of Macbeth is on there – have fun!

gummybear – I'd love to discuss translations with you, but your e-mail address won't show up in the review! Could you email me? My address is in my profile. Thanks!

And without further ado, onto the chapter. Enjoy!

* * *

'My dearest love,' Malfoy said, pulling back from the embrace and looking at her. The corners of his mouth were twitching, as though this whole thing were amusing. 'Duncan comes here tonight.'

The embrace, of course, had been the directors' idea. Hermione hadn't argued when they suggested it – Stan giving his usual good-natured grin – because she knew, even if she didn't want to go anywhere near Malfoy, that it made sense to have an embrace there. After all, Macbeth and Lady Macbeth were married; and in the excitement over the prophecy, it felt... natural.

'And when goes hence?' Hermione continued, attempting to put a little excitement, a little power-madness into her voice. Standing so close to him – her hands on his elbows – was frankly off-putting; especially when she saw that slight glitter of amusement in his eyes. That meant he was laughing at her.

'Tomorrow, as he purposes,' Malfoy replied. Standing this close, she could see that the skin under his eyes was translucent blue. Hadn't he slept again? That annoyed her; what had he been doing instead of sleeping? He might have said he'd just not been sleeping well, but she didn't believe that for a minute.

She laughed, putting a little bit of evil into the sound. 'O, never shall sun that morrow see!' she cried, and as they'd done the past five times they ran through this scene, Malfoy frowned, pulled away and took a step backwards; she closed the space and put her fingers to his jaw bone. The skin felt smooth and slightly cold; almost like the snakeskin they'd used in Potions.

'Your face, my thane, is as a book where men may read strange matters;' she said. 'To beguile the time, look like the time; bear welcome in your eye, your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under 't.' He did that already, Hermione thought. Silvery hair and grey eyes and pale skin made him look like something out of a fairy story, especially with black school robes, but underneath it...

'He that's coming must be,' she paused, '_provided_ for: and you shall put this night's great business into my dispatch; which shall to all our days and nights to come give solely sovereign sway and masterdom.'

He drew back once again, almost to the edge of the collection of desks they were using as a stage, where a thick black line marked where a door would be on the final stage. He frowned, looking conflicted; his grey eyes clouded over. 'We will speak further.'

She stepped forwards once again. 'Only look up clear; to alter favour ever is to fear:' she said, and then quietly, 'Leave all the rest to me.'

That was the end of the scene; they paused like that for a moment, and then Hermione stepped back sharply, turning to face the directors, who were sitting in chairs before the stage. 'Brilliant,' Stan told them, with his usual wide grin.

'I think you're doing really well,' Ruth added, giving them both a smile. She glanced at her watch. 'Do you think we should run through it again, or would that be enough for now?'

'I think that's enough,' Megan replied, looking up at the two on stage. 'As long as everyone's okay with that? If you want to try it once more...'

'I'm happy to end there,' Hermione said quickly, in case Malfoy was about to ask to do it again. It was exactly the kind of thing he would do, just to annoy her...

'Ok, thanks, then. Can you do Act One, Scene Seven on...' She, shuffled through some parchment in front of her, checked a list. 'Next Thursday?'

Malfoy frowned. 'I've already made plans for Thursday,' he said. 'Could we move it to Friday?'

Megan consulted the list. 'That would mean swapping the two scenes around,' she said slowly, 'and it's Act Two, Scene One on Friday. Which is your conversation with Banquo and soliloquy, Draco, so that wouldn't work...' She thought for a while. 'We could do it before the Scene One rehearsal, if you could both get here for six o'clock instead?'

'That's fine with me,' said Malfoy, and after a moment contemplating saying she couldn't make it just to annoy Malfoy – which would be incredibly childish – Hermione nodded her agreement.

'Everyone else?' Megan asked, looking around. 'There was a chorus of 'Yes,' from Olivia, Ruth and Stan. 'Adrian?' Megan asked, frowning. 'Can you... Oh, I don't _believe_ it.'

Adrian had been lying with his head in his arms for some minutes, and a quick shake from Ruth revealed the truth; he'd fallen asleep.

'_Frigida_,' Megan said sharply, drawing her wand from her pocket and waving it in Adrian's direction. A jet of water shot out of its end and hit him – rather neatly – in the ear; he yelped and fell out of his chair.

Hermione was close enough to Draco to hear him give a soft snort of amusement.

'What was that for? Adrian asked grumpily from the floor, rubbing his head.

'Your own good,' Megan replied firmly, folding her arms. 'Now, get up, sit down, and tell us whether you can make it on Friday at six.'

He got up, glaring at them all – the other three directors seemed to be struggling with laughter – and sat down, but didn't answer her question. 'You knew I had a headache,' he moaned.

'Which was your own fault for stealing that Firewhiskey from the kitchens,' Megan said without pity. 'Friday at six?'

'I can come,' Adrian muttered, slumping into his arms. 'Can I go now?'

Looking very much as if she would like to say no, Megan said 'Yes.' She glanced up to Malfoy and Hermione with an apologetic air. 'We'll see you on Friday, then. Thanks.'

* * *

The following week passed quickly; mainly because she seemed to be doing so much in it. She met with Malfoy again, of course, but only once. They criticised each other less, Hermione noted, and Malfoy was actually passably civil, even if the atmosphere still carried the same tense air of enmity as it had before, even if it was a little lessened. Maybe Malfoy was tiring of fighting, Hermione hoped; maybe they could manage to be peaceable for the rest of the play.

Of course, that was only a hope, and it was just as possible that he'd call her Mudblood next time they met and they'd end up in the hospital wing suffering the results of various nasty hexes. She hoped it didn't come to that.

She knew full well they'd never be anything like friends – unless Malfoy went completely insane, of course, or developed amnesia – but she could hope for some kind of civility. The kind where he didn't insult her, the kind where they got through the rehearsals without any vicious glares or cruel smirks or unnecessary criticisms, the kind where they, perhaps, could even call each other by their first names, or could hold a pleasant five-minute conversation of random small talk.

It was unlikely that they'd ever manage that, but she hoped for it all the same. The rest of her time was taken up with various other rehearsals – Dean and Padma seemed to want to do a rehearsal every day, and there'd been a major rehearsal of Act Two, Scene Three, which they were supposed to be rehearsing on the Sunday. Between the official rehearsals and the informal ones, added to homework and Prefect duties, Hermione was finding herself with less and less free time.

Which was why she was pleased to find a few hours on Thursday evening when she'd finished all her homework and had no one clamouring for practices. Perhaps it was a good thing that she and Malfoy couldn't stand one another – if they'd been friends they'd have rehearsed a lot more, and then would her free evening have gone?

Ron wasn't there, to her annoyance – he'd had to rush off to the Library to write a Defence essay that was due in first thing next morning, which Hermione had done a week ago. But Harry was, so they found two comfortable armchairs in one corner, out of the direct glare of the fireplace but still well warmed from it, and sat there drinking hot chocolate and letting themselves relax.

'It's actually going surprisingly well,' Harry was saying, 'especially since the last time I did any acting was the school Nativity.'

Hermione thought back to the last time he'd mentioned it – weeks ago, now. 'What were you?' she asked. 'I can see you as one of the three kings – or you'd have made a good Joseph.'

Harry shook his head. 'Innkeeper,' he said with a grin, taking a sip of his hot chocolate. 'Dudley wanted to play baby Jesus, but the teachers wouldn't let him, obviously-'

Hermione spluttered, almost spilling her drink everywhere, and Harry paused to let her recover.

'So he ended up playing one of the kings. They enticed him with a shiny gold crown,' Harry said, with a laugh. 'I thought he should have played a pig, though Aunt Petunia had her heart set on him being an angel. _'The real Angel Gabriel was male, you know, why can't my Duddykins play him...'_ Dudley said it was too girly; that was the only reason she gave in.'

Hermione laughed. 'I could just see him as a pig,' she said. 'He doesn't suit the kings; they're supposed to be wise men...'

'Which Dudley doesn't fit the criteria for,' Harry said, amused. 'I wanted to be a shepherd, I think. But the teachers said I had to be an innkeeper, so an innkeeper I was. It could have been worse, I suppose. At least I actually had something to say.'

'My school never did a Nativity,' Hermione said, sighing. 'Which is a shame, because I wanted to be an angel. Everybody wants to be an angel, every girl at least.'

Harry nodded. 'Apart from the ones who wanted to be Mary,' he agreed. 'Why didn't you do a Nativity? I thought it was one of those traditions that every school did...'

'Our Headmaster was... rather modern. He didn't like sticking to the traditional things. We did do a version of the Ramayana-'

'The what?' Harry asked in confusion.

'The Ramayana,' Hermione repeated. 'It's a Hindu story – there's probably a book containing it in the Library, if you want me to find you one. Anyway, we did that when I was about seven. And in assemblies we were just as likely to have Norse mythology or Buddhist chanting as we were to have hymns or Bible readings.' Hermione paused, smiling. 'It was fun; and I think I learned a lot more too.'

'Sounds like it,' Harry said, with a smile. 'We just used to have the same old songs... and assemblies were really boring, we never _learnt_ anything.' He paused, taking a sip of his hot chocolate. 'It was worst on the last day of term before Christmas, because the headmaster used to give a speech all about redemption and stuff. The same one every year. And all of us would be sitting there – the assembly was last thing – and knowing that our parents were waiting outside and as soon as he finished we'd be free...' He twisted the mug in his hands. 'I don't think any of us actually listened to what he said, which defeated the whole point rather, didn't it? None of us cared about it anyway.'

Hermione considered this. 'It's the kind of thing that's interesting in a philosophic sense,' she said eventually. 'Redemption, I mean.'

Harry frowned. 'How?' he asked. 'It's never seemed at all interesting to me...'

'Well, think of all the questions you can ask about it. For a start, what is redemption, anyway?' she asked.

Harry was silent for a moment, biting his lip slightly and taking another drink out of his mug. 'In the general sense? It's... I guess it's making amends for something you've... something wrong that's happened,' he said, curling himself tighter on the sofa. 'I never really thought about it before...'

'It's an interesting topic,' Hermione said slowly, watching the hot chocolate swirl in her mug. 'It's almost like there's two types of redemption-'

'What?' asked Harry.

'It's always going to be sacrificing something, or making some kind of penance for a wrong,' Hermione said, 'but there's the kind when you're making penance for something you've done wrong, and the kind where you're making penance for something someone else has done wrong.'

Harry only nodded.

'I think the latter one's mainly in religious contexts, though,' Hermione said thoughtfully. 'It doesn't happen so much in day-to-day-life.'

'Yeah, I guess not,' Harry said, quite quietly, then looked up. 'I've thought of another question; how do you get redemption?'

'I guess it depends what for, and who you ask,' Hermione replied, tilting her head to one side. 'But it would be something which fit the nature of the wrongdoing. So if you'd killed someone and wanted redemption, you might...' She thought about it. 'Risk your own life to save the lives of others, I suppose. Or die to save others.'

He considered this, resting his head against the soft armchair, looking rather tired all of a sudden. 'Die to save others,' he repeated, then closed his eyes.

He didn't speak for another few minutes; Hermione frowned. 'Harry? You aren't falling asleep, are you?'

'No,' he replied, 'Just... just resting my eyes.' He sat up, yawned, putting his empty mug down on the table beside him. 'I guess I should go to bed.'

'You probably should,' she agreed. 'I'll probably go in a minute, after I've finished my drink.' She looked at him, giving him a smile. 'Night, Harry.'

'Night,' he replied, before turning and heading to his dormitory. Hermione watched him go, frowning.

* * *

On Friday morning they awoke to news of another Death Eater attack. A rural village in Yorkshire had been attacked; five wizards and seventeen Muggles were dead, and the Aurors had confirmed that Dark Arts and Unforgivables had been used. The Daily Prophet just showed the gruesome, floating Dark Mark, of course, and a few pictures of the victims who'd had a clean, quick Avada Kedavra, lying on the ground pale, sightless and slightly surprised.

The whispers going round school – not the everyday whispers of chatter and gossip, but altogether darker and more subdued whispers, the kind you make in a library, or in the home of the recently-dead – told of worse things that had happened. Stories told of people's hearts being torn from their chests while they were still alive, or of people being tortured into insanity, or of people being forced, under Imperius, to kill their friends, children, lovers.

People recounted the properties of Dark curses that they'd heard about only briefly, as a dim and distant memory; curses that made your bones turn to ice and shatter inside you, curses that ate away slowly at your flesh like invisible maggots; curses that made your spine hiss and writhe like a malevolent snake under your skin, jabbing upwards to stab through your brain.

No one knew how many of these rumours had any truth in them; but by their existence people could at least believe they knew what had happened, which made the whole thing less frightening. An enemy you can see is always far less frightening than the one that is just a dark shape amongst the shadows, a shape that could be _anything_.

It was a quiet day, as it always was after an attack. The conversation in the common room kept breaking off, fading for a few moments before picking up again, stilted and almost forced. Harry hardly spoke at all.

It even affected the rehearsal: Megan was paler than usual, her face pinched as she guided the rehearsal through its steps with determination, and Stan had lost much of his good humour. Olivia and Ruth were both unusually quiet, and even Adrian and Malfoy were more subdued then usual.

They arranged the next formal practice for Tuesday, and – at Ruth's suggestion – Hermione and Malfoy agreed to meet on Sunday for another practice.

'Late again, Granger?' was the first thing Malfoy said when she arrived in the Library, leaning back in his seat with a confident smirk. Hermione sat down in her seat and glared at him.

'Perhaps if you hadn't been on the opposite side of the library to where we usually are, I wouldn't be so late,' Hermione replied sharply.

Malfoy simply smiled in reply. 'What are we practicing today, my lady?' he asked sarcastically, picking up his book. 'Act Two... Scene Two?'

She gave him a brief nod. Act Two, Scene Two took place directly after Macbeth and his wife had murdered King Duncan; it was dramatic and exciting, and she'd been looking forwards to acting it out. Drawing out her script, Hermione took a brief breath, concentrating on her view of Lady Macbeth, her thoughts about this scene, and began.

'That which hath made them drunk have made me bold; what hath quenched them hath given me fire,' she began, speaking quickly but firmly, like one who is trying to convince themselves of an untruth; then she gave a passable imitation of a startled jump. 'Hark! Peace!' Then, after a pause for Lady Macbeth to catch her breath, 'It was the owl that shriek'd, the fatal bellman, which gives the stern'st goodnight,' she told herself.

She went on for a few more lines; Malfoy didn't interrupt. She kept taking small glanced at him over the top of her script; he was paying attention, certainly. Perhaps he'd just got bored with criticising her every move? It would be a relief if he had.

Malfoy performed the difficult task of making 'Who's there? What, ho!' sound serious rather than comic, and Hermione carried on for a few more lines.

'Had he not resembled my father as he slept, I had done't,' she finished, glancing up. She remembered, briefly, their argument at the first rehearsal over whether Lady Macbeth was truly evil or not. What was it Malfoy had said? '_And yet she can't kill Duncan with her own hands, and she goes mad from the guilt of the various murders. Someone who is truly evil doesn't feel for their victims, doesn't go mad thinking over what they've done.'_

If he wanted to fight, this was the perfect place to bring it up. Hermione waited a second in expectation before finishing her piece. Enter Macbeth, and 'My husband!' Desperate, slightly panicked, slightly relieved.

Malfoy was silent for a few moments, before saying in unspeakably eerie tones, 'I have done the deed.'

Hermione shivered involuntarily. A second later, Malfoy looked up. 'Didst thou not hear a noise?'

'I heard the owl scream and the crickets cry,' Hermione replied. 'Did you not speak?'

They continued on, without interruption, without criticism. She didn't know why Malfoy wasn't criticising her: she wasn't criticising him partly because she didn't want to upset whatever civility they had, and partly because he was actually very good; there _were_ no glaring errors.

She'd always though of Macbeth's tone in this scene as being somewhat harsh and raw; painful, perhaps. Malfoy was more subtle, but equally mesmerising; he said things so softly, but so eerily – 'This is a sorry sight,' - raising his hands up and staring somewhere at his wrists. When they acted it, for real, his hands would be covered in blood; listening to his voice there, Hermione could almost see the blood, could imagine his hands crimson and sticky with it, and shivered.

'A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight,' she rebuked him sharply, and they carried on through 'These deeds must not be thought after these ways; so, it will make us mad' and 'Glamis hath murder'd sleep, and therefore Cawdor shall sleep no more, Macbeth shall sleep no more' and 'Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood clean from my hand?' They didn't stop once before the end; or almost the end, anyway.

'To know my deed...' Malfoy began, and stopped, then began again, his voice frighteningly hollow. 'To know my deed, 'twere best not know myself.'

He had another line to go, but he didn't speak; just stared in an abstract way at the inside of his sleeve. Hermione waited, frowning, and put it down to lack of sleep.

'Malfoy?' she prompted.

Another second, then, without looking up, 'Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst!' he finished, very slowly, and with just the right amount of desperation infused into this voice. He looked up, then; his cheekbones were tinted pink, and he was breathing too fast, pale and wide-eyed.

'Should we do it again?' Hermione asked, not knowing what else to say, and Malfoy nodded.

They went through it again.

* * *

**A/N:** 'Frigida' is the latin for, unsuprisingly, 'cold water'. Poor Adrian... Oh, and the Ramayana which Hermione refers to is an actual Hindu story.

I'm interested to see if any of you will be able to piece together what's going on. I have been leaving massive clues as to what's going to happen all over the place; so massive that they are not foreshadowing, they are foreneoning, which is like foreshadowing but with big neon lights.

Whether you work it out or not, you're going to find out some of it next chapter... but between now and then is a week's wait. What you do in that time is your choice, but you know what I suggest you do for at least part of that time? Review!


	7. Act Two, Scene Three

Macbeth: Act Two, Scene Three

**Disclaimer**: Is this a copyright I see before me, the signature towards me hand? Come, let me clutch thee. I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal document, sensible to feeling as to sight? Or art thou a possession of JKRowling?

**Thanks for 236 reviews goes to: **storm079, Rebecca15, samhaincat, JenCarpeDiem, Bella, SandryLark, Plaidly Lush (x2), Go10, Flexi Lexi, PhAnToM-ChiK, citcat299, ToOtHpIcK(x2), Chii, Madam Midnight, KawaiiRyu, darkcherry, Kou Shun'u, FalconWing, draconas, KrystyWroth, insanemaniac, stargazer starluver, Stoneage Woman, RedWitch1, A Genuine Freakshow, nikethana, Jaid Ziaen, Silvestria, Janie Granger, ablakevh, willowfairy, sugar n spice522, plumsy321, brettley, gummybear, Izadora, annikodomo, elysium, Sparkling Cherries, La Suede, V0xLoS, Nikki, Genevieve Jones.

**AN: **I had an immense amount of fun reading all your reviews, especially seeing which clues you picked up on and which you didn't! Your predictions ranged from eerily accurate to completely and totally wrong, which gave me a lot of amusement.

As to the Ramayana, I'm not entirely sure where I learned it. Most probably it's because I have a very close Hindu friend, Simrun, and because in my school on Thursdays we have various religious assemblies and there isn't one for people with no religion. So my friends and I go to the Hindu one with Simrun, which is about half Hindus and half non-Hindus at the moment. Though from next week on I'm doing voluntary work at a local primary school first thing on Thursday, so I have to skip the assemblies. I'm in two minds about that, since I really enjoy learning about Hinduism, but I also think the voluntary work's going to be really worthwhile...

And I should stop myself before I drag this whole AN completely off on a tangent. Without further ado, onto the chapter. Enjoy!

* * *

'Okay, from the beginning again,' Megan said, shuffling through her copy of the script. 'Zacharias? Are you ready?'

The Hufflepuff nodded, strolling to the left side of the stage and yawning. The rehearsal had been going for over an hour and a half, and the actors' energy was beginning to wane. It was, admittedly, a large scene which needed a lot of practice – there were nine of them in it, and not all of them were very good actors. Zacharias Smith, for example, was playing a comic role, but he kept reading it seriously and almost monotonously. He was getting better, of course, but he still needed practice.

Hermione leant against the wall and watched him cross the stage for the eighth or ninth time that day. 'Here's a knocking indeed!' he began, sounding better than last time. 'If a man were porter of hell-gate, he should have old turning the key.'

Ruth provided a knocking noise, and Zacharias carried on. Only the directors were really paying attention – with the exception of Adrian, who had come in complaining of a hangover and hadn't moved since. Harry was beside her, half-listening for his cue; Draco was on the other side of the stage talking quietly to Theodore Nott, who was playing Donalbain. The others were scattered around, leaning wearily against the walls or sitting on the floor.

'Anon, anon!' Zacharias cried, sounding annoyed. 'I pray you, remember the porter.'

He gave a slight bow in the direction of the audience, then went to the back of the stage to open the door – or at least mime doing so. Harry gave her a slight smile and got to his feet, along with Terry Boot.

'Was it so late, friend, ere you went to bed, that you do lie so late?' he asked, his voice an acceptable mixture of annoyance and amusement. The annoyance was becoming more prominent, Hermione realised, which probably had something to do with the fact that the rehearsal had been going on far too long.

'Faith sir, we were carousing till the second cock,' Zacharias replied, with slight emphasis on the last word – it was a comic scene, after all – and continued, 'and drink, sir, is a great provoker of three things.'

Moving slightly around the stage, Harry appeared amused. 'What three things does drink especially provoke?'

'Hangovers,' came the unexpected and rather piteous moan from Adrian, trying to re-bury his head even further into his arms. There was a short pause, then laughter from the cast. Megan gave him a severe look, but Hermione saw Olivia point her wand at him and whisper a kindly '_Non capitis dolor_.'

Zacharias continued. 'Marry, sir, nose-painting, sleep and urine,' he said with a distinctly evil grin, accompanying each one with a decidedly empathised mime of the corresponding action, before launching into his brief yet graphic monologue on lechery. Hermione had kept half an eye on Malfoy every time they went through this speech and had failed to catch him without an amused smirk on his face. Typical.

They reached the end of the Porter's speech, and after another brief and comic exchange the tone turned serious. 'Is thy master stirring?' Harry asked, which was Malfoy's cue; he walked onstage, smiling cordially. 'Our knocking has awakened him; here he comes,' Harry finished.

No matter how many times she watched this scene, Hermione didn't think she'd ever get used to seeing Malfoy and Harry greet each other amicably, even if she knew it was only acting. Malfoy, of course, concealed his dislike for Harry perfectly, while Harry had managed to hide it completely by the second run-through and was now the picture of courtesy and politeness. Almost.

'Is the king stirring, worthy thane?' he asked, and you could only have heard the note of distaste on 'worthy' if you'd been listening hard and knew Harry well

Malfoy shrugged. 'Not _yet_,' he replied, the innocence in his tone making it all the more malicious.

The small talk went on, as Malfoy showed Harry to the door – or rather, the section of stage marked be a thick line of chalk – to King Duncan's room; Harry slipped out, grinned at her, and watched while Terry Boot told Malfoy all about the eerie portents and 'strange screams of death' which had happened while Duncan was being murdered, and Malfoy went paler and paler, appearing quite frightened.

''Twas a rough night,' he said eventually, looking quite shaken.

'My young remembrance cannot parallel a fellow to it,' Terry agreed, and that was Harry's cue. Taking a deep breath, he burst onto the stage, half-staggering backwards from the door.

'O horror, horror, horror!' he cried, the tips of his cheeks turning red. This part was quite hard to do without being overdramatic, and it always managed to embarrass Harry. 'It makes me feel like a complete idiot,' he'd told her once, when she'd been helping him practice his lines.

After a good few practices he was getting better at it, though; he managed to sound less melodramatic and more horrified, though Hermione thought he could still use more work as she watched him rush around the stage and pausing where the doors would be, calling for the others.

'Ring the bell!' he called at last, and that was Hermione's cue. Feigning a yawn, she stepped on to the narrow square that defined the stage.

'What's the business, that such a hideous trumpet calls to parley the sleepers of the house?' she asked, attempting to sound both alarmed and annoyed at being woken up – Lady Macbeth had never been to sleep, of course, but Macduff and the others weren't to know that. 'Speak, speak!'

Harry caught her by the wrists, giving her an earnest look. 'O gentle lady,' he began, ''Tis not for you to hear what I can speak: the repetition, in a woman's ear, would murder as it fell.'

Which was, of course, completely ironic, considering she had been the one to plan the murder. Hermione loved these little parts – the seemingly innocent lines which contained so much more when you took the time to really look at them.

Justin Finch-Fletchley, who was playing Banquo, entered at that point, looking just as sleepy and vaguely irritated as Hermione had. 'O Banquo, Banquo!' Harry cried, leaving Hermione instantly and crossing to Justin's side. 'Our royal master's murdered.'

Hermione clapped her hands to her mouth. 'Woe, alas!' she said – that was another one of those lines that was impossible to say without sounding ridiculous. 'What, in our house?'

'Too cruel anywhere.' Justin said, sounding shocked. 'Dear Duff, I prithee, contradict thyself, and say it is not so.'

Malfoy re-entered at this point, looking solemn and miserable, along with Terry Boot and one of the fifth-year Ravenclaws, who was playing Ross.

Hermione didn't have much to do after this point – she wished, briefly, that she had a larger part in this scene, but then chided herself for being greedy. She had, after all, an excellent character to play. For the rest of this scene, all she really had to do was stand, looking horrified, and react in-character to what everyone else was saying.

When Macbeth entered they shared a desperate and conspiratorial glance; then he came over to stand beside her, touch her shoulder and see that she was alright, while mourning the passage of the man he'd murdered – all an act – and then leave her and cross the room when the king's sons entered. She showed shock when he said he'd killed the guards who they'd pinned the blame on, with another conspiratorial glance. While he explained why he'd killed them, talking about 'gash'd stabs' and 'breech'd with gore', she tried -very hard – to go pale, weak and shaky.

After the explanation came the part she hated. 'Help me hence, ho!' she cried, and – rather nervously – toppled over backwards. Whether she hit the floor or not depended on whether Terry Boot was paying attention and ready to catch her. On the second run-through he'd been too busy figuring out where they were on the script to remember that he had to catch her, and she'd hit her head rather hard on the floor. That had amused the others – particularly Malfoy – but she'd failed to see the funny side herself.

Thankfully, this time he did catch her; Justin cried 'Look to the lady!' giving the assembled actors a reason to crowd around her, worried and sympathetic, while the king's sons had a quiet discussion at the front of the stage. When all that was one, she was carried off by Terry Boot and the Ravenclaw playing Ross; they'd already managed to hit her against the wall once and the desk-stage twice. All in all, it was a painful scene.

The rest of the action wound itself up; they all decided to meet again in a short while when they'd composed themselves, leaving the king's sons to decide that it was far too dangerous to stay in Scotland and to decide where to run to. And then it was over.

'Excellent, that was much better,' Megan said when they last line had been delivered. 'You've made a lot of progress, all of you. Now...' She glanced at her watch. 'Is that the time? I suppose that'll be the end of it, then, unless anyone wants to go through it again?'

No one did; there was a general cheer as everyone headed for the doors.

* * *

''Tis safer to be that which we destroy then by destruction dwell in doubtful joy,' Hermione said, paused a second for the Enter Macbeth, and then carried one. 'How now-'

'No, it's safer to dwell in doubtful joy,' Malfoy interrupted thoughtfully. 'Because if you're destroyed, then you're dead.'

Hermione frowned. 'There's nothing safer than death: you can't be hurt any more if you're dead,' she remarked, before attempting to continue. 'How now, my lord! Why do-'

'But you're dead,' Malfoy said firmly, glancing up at her with an unreadable expression in cold grey eyes. 'Which suggests that something very dangerous must have happened to you. Plus your body rots, which doesn't sound very safe to me...'

'I think it means in terms of your mind,' Hermione replied. 'Why do you keep alone, of sorriest fancies-'

'I suppose it depends on your definition of safe,' Malfoy interrupted again, examining a knothole on the table, and Hermione snapped.

'Look, Malfoy, will you let me finish this line?'

He glanced up, amusement twisting the corners of his mouth. 'No,' he said, with a tone of sullied innocence, an odd light in his eyes. 'I won't.'

Disgusted, she threw the script down. 'We are _meant_ to be practicing, Malfoy...'

'Well I say we're meant to be taking a break,' he replied decisively, leaning back in his chair. 'Unless Miss Know-it-All hasn't heard of breaks? It's quite an easy concept, my lady, you simply...'

'I know what a break is,' Hermione replied sharply. 'I don't understand why you'd want one. Isn't your sole aim in life to get through these practices and away from me as fast as possible?'

'Away from you? When I could be making your life a misery?' Malfoy asked, putting an elegant hand to his chest as though offended. 'Never.'

Hermione groaned, slumping forwards to put her head on the table. 'Why did they choose you to play Macbeth?' she asked.

'My wit, charm, acting ability and incredible good looks?' Malfoy asked, smirking.

'Someone told me you got it because you were friends with Megan,' she accused, not mentioning that she didn't believe that at all.

He raised an eyebrow. 'Megan Montgomery? The _Gryffindor_?'

'Is there another Megan?' she asked. 'I heard you kept visiting each other in the summer after first year.' That was true. Lavender had told her, and while Lavender would pass anything on regardless of whether it was true or not, she wouldn't say it was _definitely_ true, _definitely_ reliable, unless she knew it was true.

Malfoy looked at her blankly for a moment. She saw a brief flicker of realisation flash over his face before he broke into laughter; genuine laughter. That startled her; she hadn't seen him laugh before.

'Granger, the last time I saw Megan, she punched me in the face and broke my jaw,' he informed her when he'd regained control of himself. 'There are no feelings of friendship there, I assure you.'

'She _broke_...?' Hermione asked incredulously. 'Why?'

Malfoy shrugged. 'Because she was annoyed at me, I assume. I think I was provoking her.' He paused a moment, considering. 'I was probably provoking her. We weren't friends, certainly.'

'Why was she at your house, then?' Hermione asked, curious.

'Her parents thought she was becoming too... _liberal_,' he said, with a note of distaste. 'Obviously once she was sorted into Gryffindor there was no hope for her, but they thought someone such as I might have a good influence on her.' He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. 'Didn't you know? That's why she's taking Muggle Studies, of course. Rebellion.'

Hermione shook her head. 'I never knew that,' she replied.

His eyes widened. 'The Almighty Granger didn't know something?' he asked in mock disbelief. 'Is the world drawing to an end?'

She glared at him. 'Oh, find something more _original_ to insult.'

'Why change a winning formula?'

'_Malfoy_...' She sighed. 'Let's just get back to the practice. Shall we?'

Malfoy glanced at his watch. 'No, I don't feel like it yet.'

'Well I do,' Hermione replied, stubbornly, picking up her script. She took a breath to calm herself, to get back into character. 'How now, my lord!'

'Quite well, thank you,' Malfoy replied flippantly, inspecting his fingernails. Hermione glared at him and carried on.

'Why do you keep alone, of sorriest fancies your companions making...'

'_Sorriest_ fancies?' Malfoy asked, with a smirk. 'None of my fancies are ever very _sorry_...'

'_Malfoy_!' she snapped again. 'Can't you be serious for one minute?'

'Only when I want to be, and I don't much feel like being serious now,' he replied, grinning at her. She had to restrain herself from throwing her script at him.

'Very well, then, tell me when you _do_ feel like being serious,' she replied. 'Accio book.'

She pointed her wand randomly at the bookshelf; a book came flying towards her, which she opened up and began to read.

Malfoy craned to read the title. '_Difficulties in the Legal, Moral and Ethical Aspect of Transfiguring Animals,_' he read. 'That sounds absolutely fascinating, Granger.'

She ignored him, focusing on the introduction to the book. _The Wizarding community has been debating the question of the transfiguration of animals – the transformation of intelligent and sentient beings..._

'I wonder if Longbottom counts as an animal', Malfoy mused.

..._of intelligent and sentient beings into..._

'The Weasleys would be, obviously, you only have to look at that hovel they live in.'

..._sentient beings into other forms, often..._

'Hey, you could transfigure the Mudbloods into...'

He never got to finish the sentence. One second the book was in her hand; the next it has flown across the table and hit the bookcase behind him; Malfoy having ducked quickly out of the way. Hermione was on her feet.

'_You absolute..._' she hissed, incapable of finishing the sentence: there were no words in existence to describe him. 'Can't you be polite and friendly for _once_ in you miserable selfish _life_?'

'I can when I'm not being completely ignored,' he replied rudely, folding his arms and glaring up at her.

'And I wouldn't have been ignoring you if you were being sensible!' she shrieked back, becoming acutely conscious that she was in a library. She took a deep breath, concentrating on controlling herself, on calming down. 'Look are you going to cooperate or not?'

He stared at her for a moment, his gaze surly and unreadable. 'Fine.'

She sat down, picked up her script, and continued. 'How now, my lord! Why do you keep alone, of sorriest fancies your companions making...'

They continued on rather stiffly for a few exchanges, before Hermione got back into the right frame of mind. _We have to put up with each other_, she reminded herself firmly. They could not fight. Even if he was being a cruel, insulting, vicious pig; she had to really try to get on with him.

She managed it for the rest of the scene. 'Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill: so, prithee, go with me,' Malfoy finished, looking up at her, his eyes as unreadable as mercury.

After a short but tense silence, Hermione spoke. 'Again?'

'I don't want to,' was the immediate answer. 'And before you say anything, there is such a concept as _compromise_, you know. I let you have your practice, so you should let me have my break.'

'Fine,' Hermione replied, and immediately began reading through her script silently. After staring at her for a few seconds, Malfoy did the same.

After half a minute, he spoke. 'Do you think Macbeth and his wife love each other?'

'Are you just trying to make me talk?' she demanded, glancing up.

He was toying with the knothole on the tabletop again. 'No. I'm interested.'

'In that case, I don't know. Probably not,' she replied, returning to the script.

Malfoy's voice was completely innocent. 'Why not?'

_Calm and polite_, she reminded herself. 'They're the villains,' she explained. 'The evil ones. Love and evil don't usually go together well.'

'It depends how you define love, I suppose,' Malfoy replied, totally absorbed in the knothole. 'Or evil.' He looked up then, laughed a little, eyes shining. 'Or do you think that anyone who does evil isn't human? Do you think they lack the ability to love because they're cruel to people?'

'Since you ask, yes.' Hermione replied. 'And if you try to convince me that your father is a kind and loving man...'

'I wouldn't,' Malfoy replied sharply. 'He isn't. But that doesn't mean a Death Eater can't... can't do evil things and still be human.'

'I don't think they're human,' Hermione said, surprising even herself with the conviction in her voice. Malfoy's head snapped up. 'I mean, you've read the reports in the Daily Prophet...'

Malfoy gave a funny little laugh. 'Reports! And newspapers,' he said viciously. His fingernails dug in around the knothole as though trying to prise it out. 'And of course anyone with a Dark Mark on their arm isn't human...'

'It depends...' Hermione began, but Malfoy didn't let her finish; the tips of his cheekbones were turning pink.

'That's so typical of you. Your side. All those Death Eaters, nothing but vermin and evil inhuman murderers, and you don't-'

'That's exactly what _they_ think of _us_!' Hermione cried. 'That's what they think about the Muggleborns, and they're the evil ones, the inhuman ones, because _we haven't done anything_!_ They're_ the murderers!'

'Typical Mudblood,' Malfoy spat, eyes filled with venom, and got to his feet., shoving his script into his bag. 'I'm going...'

'Running away because you know you're losing the argument?' Hermione asked, more nastily than she'd meant to. 'The day you convince me that Death Eaters have feelings too... _Listen to me!_'

She grabbed hold of his sleeve as he turned to go, pulling it down to his elbow in the process. He pulled back as if stung, eyes wide, snatching his arm up to his chest, but there was no denying what she'd seen on his arm, even if only for a split second.

The Dark Mark.

* * *

**AN:** And on that extremely cruel cliffhanger, I shall leave you. Congratulations to everyone who figured out the clues!

_Non capitis dolor_, translated roughly, means 'no headache'.

As you can probably guess, you're in for a fun time next chapter. In the meantime, all reviewers get an hour with dearest Draco to do whatever you desire, whether it be intensive questioning, disbelieving screaming, hugging, kissing or... ahem.

Review!


	8. Act Three, Scene One

Macbeth: Act Three, Scene One

**Disclaimer:** Surprising as this may be, I am not Shakespeare, and I don't own Macbeth. Oh, and I'm not J.K.Rowling either.

**Thanks for 281 reviews goes to:** citcat299, ablakevh, kokopoko, SPARKLING EYES, KawaiiRyu, PlaidlyLush, plumsy321, thatonechic, Go10, samhaincat, brettley, draconas, chamorrobaby, FalconWing, the hope conspiracy, insanemaniac, Stoneage Woman, RedWitch1, langocsca, A Genuine Freakshow, Jaid Zaien, Muznakh, Opalfire, Sparkling Cherries, darkcherry, chii, foxer (x2), Rebecca15, Nathonea, Athena Linborn, ToOtHpIcK, sugar n spice522, willowfairy, storm079, Crystallized Snow, kessi1011, Nikki, stargazer starluver, Flavagurl, SandryLark, Munching Munchkin Managem, Genevieve Jones, Angel-Wings-Forever.

**AN:** As someone asked about it in a review, I had some extremely long discussions with various people and I figured out two things relating to arms. One, when you're tugging at people's sleeves, any tugging in the direction of the elbow is generally referred to as 'down' (at least by people where I live. It'd be fascinating to see if people in other countries have different down/up conventions!)

Second, people really do not know what the forearm is. The forearm is the part of the arm between the wrist and the elbow, and on the inside of the forearm is the Dark Mark. That's your anatomy lesson for the week.

How you know you've been reading Macbeth too much: When trick or treaters knock on your door for the fifth time in as many minutes, and you race to the top of the stairs crying, 'What, Will the line stretch out to the crack of doom!' And yes, I actually did that.

And now, onto the chapter. Enjoy!

* * *

'You... you....'

Without thinking, she stood up, slowly backing away from Malfoy. For his part, he simply stared at her, arm still pressed against his chest, the look in his silver-grey eyes cold and calculating.

'Granger,' he said, his voice quiet, 'if you tell anyone about this, I swear...'

'You're one of... one of them...' she carried on, realising dimly that she was shaking. Taking another step backwards, she felt the sudden pressure of the bookcase behind her and almost screamed. 'You have...'

'_Granger_,' he repeated again, irritated now, and took a step towards her. Almost by reflex she drew her wand, pointing it straight at him, before he could take another step.

'Don't come near me,' she said in what was almost a whisper. Dimly, she realised that she sounded terrified, and forced herself to take a deep breath.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow and stepped closer 'Merlin's sake, Granger, stop shaking!' he snarled, drawing his own wand. 'Listen to me, if you tell anyone...'

'That's where you were,' Hermione whispered, a sudden, horrible, sickening realisation coming to her mind. 'On Thursday night, when you couldn't rehearse... That Yorkshire village, the one that got attacked... you were _there_.' She swallowed, feeling bile rise to the back of her throat. 'And right after they announced the casting, you were away that night and there was another attack...'

'Shut up, Granger,' Malfoy spat suddenly. 'Stop it.'

She let out a sudden bitter laugh. 'How long have you had... had that _thing_? How long have you been... been killing people and...'

'Granger, I'm warning you...'

'... and _murdering_ people... I've heard what happened to some of those victims.' Malfoy was shaking with anger now. 'I know what's been done to them... what _you've_ done...' She let out a noise that sounded like a slightly hysterical hiccup. 'How many of them did you kill, Malfoy, _how many_...'

'Shut up!' he shouted again, fury flaring in his eyes. Hermione let out a small scream, certain he was going to hex her, and managed to cast a 'Protego!' But the shield was only effective against spells, and Malfoy was beyond the point of magic: he grabbed her by the throat, pinning her to the bookcase and strangling her, his face only inches from hers. 'Shut up!' he shouted again. 'Don't you ever... ever...'

She struggled, her fingers clawing at the hands pinned round her throat, but it was useless. She couldn't breathe, no matter how hard she struggled or gasped, and her head was going dizzy and she couldn't think straight, and her sight was blurring with greenish patches in front of Malfoy's coldly furious eyes...

He threw her aside; the next thing she knew she was sitting on the floor, gasping for air, and he was standing with his back to her, breathing hard. Her vision cleared along with her mind, and she scrabbled on the floor for the wand she'd dropped, finally drawing herself to her knees. She didn't feel quite recovered enough to stand yet.

Malfoy had just attacked her, strangled her...

Malfoy was a _murderer_.

She managed to level her wand at him. 'I... I'm going to Dumbledore,' she said, shaking slightly. 'I'm going...'

'Don't you dare!' he hissed, spinning on his heel. 'You aren't going to tell _anyone_.'

She looked up at him, rubbing her neck nervously with her left hand. 'You can't stop me,' she whispered. 'If you kill me, they'll know it was you, you'll get sent to Azkaban anyway...'

He twitched. 'But you'll be dead,' he replied, and Hermione shivered. Malfoy's eyes were frightening, set too deep in impossibly pale flesh; they were silver and shining and danced with some cold, fearful light. He took a step forward, crouching in front of her, and pressed the tip of his wand into her neck. She still had her wand, of course, but she seemed to have forgotten how to use it; everything was lost to shock and fear.

'If you tell anyone,' he whispered, his voice dry and scratchy, 'anyone at all, I will kill you. As painfully as I can. Do you understand?'

She nodded, and he smiled; a mock half-smile which was somehow terrifying. Hermione had no doubts about the fact that he meant what he said. The tip of his wand dug hard into her throat. 'False face must hide what the false heart doth know,' he said, his tone almost singsong, then his face darkened. 'Get out. Get away from me.'

Hermione pulled back, but hesitated before leaving, and Malfoy scowled. 'Out!' he shouted, and half-panicking, she scrambled to her feet and ran for the darkest corner of the Library, as far away from him as she could get.

* * *

'Okay, well done, you two,' Ruth said. 'I think we're ready to try with the proper swords now, don't you?'

Megan nodded. 'Sure. Did you bring them, Adrian?'

It was the day after Hermione had found out about Malfoy's Mark, and – partly because Harry had asked, partly because she wanted to keep an eye on Malfoy – she'd agreed to go and watch the rehearsal. It was Malfoy and Harry only, that day; they were practicing the choreography of the sword fight near the end where Macbeth got killed. Up till that point, they'd been using wooden poles enchanted to be light and cushioned, only miming the part where Malfoy got stabbed.

Harry eyed the swords warily; they were real swords, borrowed from some of the school's suits of armour. 'They are safe, right?' he asked nervously with a quick, suspicious glance at Malfoy.

Malfoy's eyes widened and he looked directly at Hermione, one eyebrow raised. The question was clear. _Have you told him?_

She shook her head briefly, biting her lip. She hadn't told Harry – hadn't told anyone – but she felt guilty about not doing so. Malfoy was a Death Eater, he had to be expelled or sent to Azkaban or whatever it was they would do...

'Of course they're safe,' Ruth replied. 'Adrian and Olivia have been working on them for ages.'

Harry looked even more worried at that, glancing dubiously at Adrian, who simply sighed. He picked up one of the swords, held his arm out and carelessly sliced through it.

His arm failed to fall off, but the sleeve and skin were convincingly cut and a ring of blood welled up around his arm, dripping onto the floor. 'It's fake,' Adrian said lazily, slicing another line along his arm, which also began to ooze blood. 'The swords are charmed not to cut flesh and to produce this fake blood when they come into contact with skin. You won't even feel them.'

He sliced through a finger. 'Thank you, Adrian, that's quite enough. Finite Incantatem' Megan said, and all of Adrian's fake wounds were healed. He looked quite annoyed. 'Could you give the swords to our actors?'

He did so, and immediately sank into his chair again. Harry held his timidly, as though afraid of what it could do, while Malfoy's grip was confident, calm. Both boys were tired from repeated tries with the poles, and Harry's cheeks were red, his forehead sweaty, while Malfoy's skin was tinged a pale pink and his eyes were feverish and alight. Hermione shuddered, remembering the previous day's events in the library. Her hand moved reflexively to her throat.

Why hadn't she told Dumbledore yet? It was the sensible thing to do, and she knew that he could easily protect her from Malfoy. It would be a simple matter of keeping her somewhere hidden and safe – Dumbledore's office, perhaps – while he made the necessary arrangements for Draco to be expelled and taken to the Ministry by Aurors. He was over sixteen; he was of age by wizarding law, and it'd be an adult's trial and sentence. Azkaban or the Kiss. He'd never get near her.

Besides, she wasn't afraid of him, she told herself firmly. In the Library she'd simply been in shock, unsure what to do. If he tried to attack her again, she was confident she could fight back. So even if he did escape or bribe the Ministry, she would be safe.

So _why_ hadn't she gone to Dumbledore?

On stage, the boys began their fight; Harry was too cautious and kept making mistakes. 'Don't be scared of the sword, Harry, it can't hurt anyone,' Megan called. 'Start again.'

It wasn't fear that kept her going, it was something else. Perhaps going to Dumbledore would make it too real. While she told no one, it was an isolated event, which it was possible to ignore or forget or pretend hadn't happened. She could act as though she didn't know about Malfoy's Mark, and go on as normal.

But when she told someone that made it all real; when Malfoy was taken away by Aurors it made him undeniably a Death Eater; when he was tried and the crimes he had committed were revealed, it made him a definable murderer - _these _are the people he killed and _this_ is how he killed them – rather than an abstract murderer, when she knew that he had killed but didn't know who or how or where.

Harry cut a line along Malfoy's collarbone as he was supposed to, and Malfoy gave an impressive imitation of a painful wince. Then Harry stumbled as he moved backwards for his next thrust, falling over.

'Sorry,' he said, blushing and getting to his feet.

'Don't worry,' Stan said with a grin, 'just start again.'

They did, and Hermione watched as they moved back into starting positions.

Besides, if she told Dumbledore and Malfoy was sent to Azkaban – or Kissed – that made her responsible. And he was a Death Eater, and if she hadn't known him previously she would have done it in an instant. But this was Malfoy, and yes, he had insulted her and fought her friends and generally been hateful for all the time she'd known him, but he wasn't just a faceless figure in a hood with a Mark on his arm.

He was _Malfoy_, and she may have hated him, but it still made him known to her. She could imagine too easily the figure of a Malfoy screaming in a prison cell of Azkaban, Dementors by his door, or a soulless shell sitting in a corner and stating at the wall blankly.

Knowing the person who you condemned to Azkaban made it all worse, somehow. Knowing them meant you could lie awake at night and wonder what they saw every time the Dementors walked past, or wonder where their soul went after the Dementors sucked it out, and then you couldn't sleep without dreaming about it and waking up, cold and guilty, even if you knew they were evil and knew they'd done wrong.

Hermione wondered if everyone who'd ever been in this kind of position had these problems.

Onstage, Harry swiped another slash along Malfoy's collarbone with his sword – another well-timed flinch – then they carried on, without falling this time, slashing and parrying with considerable success. They were nearing the end of the fight now, when Harry would stab Malfoy and he'd fake a dramatic death. Slash and parry, slash and parry, across the stage...

There was a cackle up above; Hermione glanced upwards with a sinking feeling – she knew that voice – and saw Peeves descending through the ceiling holding an armful of what looked suspiciously like water balloons. He cackled again and performed a backwards somersault in mid air.

'Are the ickle actors having a swordfight, then?' he said, laughing and swooping under Harry's sword. Harry stopped, which forced Malfoy to do so as well.

Megan got to her feet. 'Peeves,' she said firmly, 'Get out of this practice, or I'll be forced to go to Professor Dumbledore about you.'

The poltergeist giggled. 'Oooh, the Headmaster is it, then?' he asked, flipping upside down and blowing a raspberry. 'He'll get so angry at poor innocent Peeves...'

Malfoy was glaring at the ghost. 'The one thing you aren't is poor and innocent,' he spat. 'Leave.'

'Shan't,' Peeves replied, picking up one of the water balloons and throwing it straight at him. It burst all over his head, and after a second's silence, Harry started laughing. The balloons weren't full of water, after all; they were full of fake blood.

No sooner had Harry started laughing then Peeves threw one at him, too, and then swooped over the directors and the small audience, flinging the balloons everywhere. 'Out damned spot!' he whooped, as the balloons splattered crimson over everyone. People began ducking under seats; Adrian simply headed for the door.

Megan was furious. 'Peeves!' she shrieked. 'Go! Now!'

He threw a balloon at her; she was soaked in crimson. For a moment she stood, gaping, then with an irate cry of 'I'm going to the Headmaster!' she headed for the door, pursued by more bursting balloons. With Megan gone, everyone felt free to leave; hurrying for the door with Peeves raining down fake blood on them 'Out, damned spot!' he cackled again, somersaulting across the ceiling and laughing like a maniac.

Hermione, frowning at the stains on her robe, happened to glance back at Malfoy. He was standing on the stage, sword still in his right hand, his left stained with the false blood and raised to his face. He was staring at it in horror, and in that moment, blood stained and sword-bearing and dressed all in black, he really _looked_ like a Death Eater.

She shuddered, and got out as quickly as possible before heading for the library. She felt safe there.

* * *

'Granger.'

She flinched, glancing sideways to see who was there, even though she knew the voice. Malfoy must have followed her straight here; he was still dressed in the clothes he'd been wearing to practice: black shirt, black trousers – you couldn't swordfight in robes. His face was still flushed, his eyes still oddly alight, the twin fake cuts across his collarbone and the accompanying blood still soaking his shirt, his face and hands still red-tinged from Peeves' balloons, the ornate sword still in his hand.

She bit her lip and tried not to look at him; looking at him only made her more frightened. 'I haven't told anyone,' she said, as if this defence would help her. 'I _haven't_. Malfoy, just... go away, please.'

'Be quiet!' he hissed, sounding almost afraid, spinning around and backing into the enclosed space with his sword pointing straight towards the entrance, defensive. 'They'll hear you!'

He looked as though he'd just come off a battlefield. 'Malfoy...' she said, her voice pleading, but he raised a finger to his lips, staring out of the gap between the bookcases. 'What do you want from me?' she whispered.

He looked at her, then, with his sword clutched tightly in his hand and his hair sticking to his face with blood and sweat and his clothes torn. Like an angel of death. When he spoke, his voice was low and almost desperate and nothing like what she'd expected him to say.

'Help me,' he whispered. 'Please _help me_.'

Hermione bit her lip, looking down at the book in front of her. 'Malfoy, I don't _want_...'

She was cut off by the sword clattering down on the table in front of her – she flinched – and then Malfoy was kneeling at the floor on her left, clinging to her arm and looking up with eyes like liquid mercury. '_Help me,_' he hissed again.

Frightened, she tried to tug her arm out of his grip but could not. 'I can't help you,' she replied desperately, 'Malfoy, just go.'

He touched the false cuts on his collarbone. 'I need you to help me. I need you to heal these, I don't know any medicinal magic...'

She shook her head, still trying to pull away from him. 'No, Malfoy, let go of me! They're not real cuts, they're fake, let me go!'

He shook his head. 'I'll let you go if you heal them,' he said.

Realising she wouldn't escape any other way, she grabbed her wand from her schoolbag and pointed it at the injuries. 'Finite Incantatem,' she said.

Nothing happened.

'I told you they were real,' Malfoy whispered, 'and all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.'

They couldn't be real. She'd seen Adrian test the charm herself. 'Sana,' she whispered. The wounds closed up.

For a second, they were both silent. 'You said you'd let go of me,' she whispered, and he obligingly did so; she scrambled out of her chair and stepped hurriedly backwards, away from the bloodstained Malfoy kneeling by her seat.

Hermione pulled herself together. 'You should go and tell Olivia that the charm broke,' Hermione said, trying to get her mind back to some semblance of order. A thought occurred to her: if Peeves hadn't come in when he did, and Harry had stabbed Malfoy with his sword...

But why hadn't Malfoy stopped the rehearsal when the sword cut him for real?

Malfoy's eyes were unwavering. 'It didn't break.'

There was only one explanation. 'You... you did something...' She gasped, feeling suddenly dizzy. 'Why? Were you... you were trying to kill Harry, weren't you?'

Malfoy shook his head, very slowly. 'My sword's still charmed,' he said. 'You can test it if you want. It's only Potter's that I took the charm off; Adrian left them lying around the common room, you see, so I changed the charms...'

Hermione shook her head, disbelieving. '_You_ changed....'

'Yes. I made it so that when Potter's sword touched mine, the charms would come off,' he said, then smiled, a slow, wide smile that had everything of madness in it. 'I thought he'd like to kill me. An accident, the charms didn't work, such a shame...'

'You did it... You...' Hermione couldn't think straight; everything seemed confused and jumbled. Malfoy had taken the charms off Harry's sword but not his own, that meant that when they fought, Malfoy would be stabbed. But that meant Malfoy had wanted to be stabbed, which meant he wanted to...

'I don't want to die,' he whispered, almost desperately. 'I thought I did. To be or not to be, that is the question, but that's the wrong play, isn't it? By self and violent hands...'

He raised a finger to his lips, then slowly sank down behind the chair, eyes fixed on her until the last possible moment, and then all she could see was blood-stained silver hair as he rested his head against the seat.

* * *

**AN:** 'Sana' is translated as 'Heal'. There are also an impressive four Macbeth quotes in this chapter, and a gratuitous Hamlet quote as well. If anyone spots them all, I'll be impressed. (On the topic of Hamlet: I'm going to see it tomorrow with school, very excitingly).

I'm sure you all know the drill by now. Review!


	9. Act Three, Scene Two

Macbeth: Act Three, Scene Two

**Disclaimer: **

The Scottish play. No,

I don't own it – nor Harry.

J.K.Rowling does.

**Thanks for 323 reviews goes to:** kessi1011, Plaidly Lush, samhaincat, Go10, RedWitch1, elysium, ablakevh, the road to damascus, Jaid Zaien, Francinator, Eric Cartman's Evil Minion, Madam Midnight, Nikki, Sparkling Cherries, Flavagurl, Rebecca15, willowfairy, Katharina, darkcherry, sugar n spice522, ToOtHpIcK, citcat299, Veritasvincit, KawaiiRyu, blueberry girl, Opalfire, Munching Munchkin Management, FalconWing, Lisi, I-luv-Harry-Potter-Romance, jules37, Crystallized Snow, Stoneage Woman, PsYcHoJo, foxer, brettley, langocska, Avelynn Tame, Silvestria, Genevieve Jones.

**A/N:** Congratulations to everyone who spotted all the last chapter's quotes!

For any of you who wanted to know, Hamlet was excellent. The set particularly was really innovative, they had these massive doors – three each side – and they kept opening and closing different combinations of them to create different effects. So all the doors would slam shut for one of Hamlet's soliloquies, for example, and it went really eerie. Very effective.

This fic, if it would interest you to know, was conceived directly after a production of Macbeth, and the previous chapter's final scene was The One that the Muses decided to dump straight into my head by way of inspiration.

Anyway, onto the chapter. It is slightly shorter than usual, but I hope you can forgive me for that… at any rate, enjoy!

* * *

'Tis safer to be that which we destroy than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy,' Hermione said, feeling far too intently now the double application of that phrase – to Macbeth and to Malfoy. It had only been five days ago that she'd been practicing that scene with him, completely innocent of any knowledge other than that Malfoy was incredibly irritating, and then she'd pulled his sleeve down and seen…

Mind on the rehearsal. Malfoy was supposed to enter behind her, while she faced the opposite wall for a moment, thinking, then turned and saw him. 'How now, my lord,' she said. 'Why do you keep alone, of sorriest fancies your companions making…'

It was far too ironic. Malfoy had tried to 'keep alone', and had succeeded for the past three days. She'd barely even seen him, except in the lessons they'd had together, and then he'd ignored her completely. True, he'd only managed to stay alone because she'd been avoiding him too.

And sorriest fancies. _Those thoughts which should indeed have died with them they think on_, as Lady Macbeth said. The guilt and fear that Macbeth felt after murdering Duncan, mirrored perfectly – as far as she could see – in Malfoy, life mirroring art mirroring life.

'What's done is done,' she finished, a half-pleading note to her voice, as if she were begging him to listen to her.

He wasn't facing her at this point, having been walking up and down the stage while he spoke; now he turned to face her. 'We have scotch'd the snake, not killed it,' he began, and for a brief moment she wondered what he meant, with the unsettling feeling that a mirror she'd been looking in had just broken. Of course, he was talking about Banquo; this was all in the script. For a moment she'd been thinking of the words in the context of reality, not in that of the play, and it had thrown her.

It was an odd juxtaposition. For the most part, the speech was wholly centred on the play, but sometimes he'd look sharply at her and say 'But let the frame of things disjoint,' and it would seem as though he was speaking about reality rather than speaking his lines; then he'd say something else and it would flick back. It was like one of those Muggle puzzles, where you can either see a vase or two faces but not both at once.

'Nothing can touch him further,' he finished, and turned his face away; she crossed the stage to him and took his hands.

'Come on, gentle my lord,' she said, then, touching his face, 'sleek o'er your rugged looks,' – and that felt like reality, as if she was telling him to hide his guilt, his _insanity_. He looked back at her with eyes that were as silver as mercury and unreadable.

It was five days since she'd found out about the mark, four since he'd come to her and asked her to heal the wounds, and she hadn't told anyone about any of it. She hadn't known who to tell, what to do. _Please, Professor Dumbledore, Malfoy has a Dark Mark and I think he's going mad._

She couldn't tell. He was a Death Eater, and she was almost certain that he had murdered. One-way ticket to Azkaban, and he was already losing his mind here, how much worse would he be with Dementors? The practical side of her pointed out that if he was a Death Eater, he deserved it – but if he was going insane, and it looked likely, then he obviously had a conscience about it. Of course, it could be something entirely different sending him mad. Potions or poisons or even just guilt over something else. It could be anything

The problem was finding out. Until she knew exactly what was going on, she couldn't make any decisions about telling or not telling people.

'So, prithee, go with me,' Malfoy finished finally, holding out a hand; she took it and they walked offstage together. As soon as possible, he dropped her hand as though it were poisonous, turning to face the directors.

'Excellent,' Megan said. 'Once more?'

They did it again, and then another time because Ruth had a suggestion, and when Megan said they could go Hermione felt very relieved. It was somehow disconcerting to be acting up on the makeshift stage with the feeling that imagination and reality were getting their lines mixed up, with Malfoy who was a Death Eater and half-mad. It felt surreal.

Just as she was about to step off the desks, as the directors were backing their things away and heading out, she felt a pressure on the inside of her elbow. A hand. 'Wait.'

For an instant, she wanted to ignore him and walk straight out, but then she decided it was probably better to stay. For one, there was no telling what he'd do if she left. He'd probably just come and find her later, anyway, and he might be angry. Quite possibly the last thing she wanted to do was anger a half-insane Death Eater. Secondly, she might find out something, if he let something slip or told her outright.

When Stan had closed the door behind him, she turned to face Draco. 'Did you want something?' she asked, suddenly very aware that they were alone in the room.

'Have you told anyone?' he asked immediately, his face kept as hard as stone. Hermione shook her head. 'Good. Keep it that way,' Malfoy continued, then jumped gracefully down from the makeshift stage and headed for the door.

She had only a split second in which to think. 'Wait.' He paused, halfway across the room, and looked over his shoulder at her.

'What?'

For a moment she considered shaking her head and letting him go, but she wanted to know what was going on, needed to know. She stepped down from the stage, rather more clumsily than he had, and paused. 'We need to talk.' She said, choosing her words carefully.

'No.' he replied, immediately and firmly, before heading again for the door.

'I'll go to Dumbledore,' she called out, and his step faltered, hand paused on the doorknob. He glanced back at her.

'You wouldn't dare,' he hissed, but she could hear a note of fear in his voce.

She stepped towards him, feeling more confident now that she held the cards. 'Yes I would,' she said firmly. 'I just want one conversation, and then I promise I'll keep it secret. All of it.' A promise she was half-intending to break, of course, if she had to. She swallowed the little swirl of guilt down, reminded herself that he was a Death Eater. Promises could be broken – sometimes _had_ to be broken – in some cases.

Something in his eyes changed, though his body didn't move. 'When I said I… I'd kill you,' he said, surprisingly softly for a threat, 'I meant it.'

'You didn't,' Hermione replied, not at all confident that what she was saying was true, but if she'd guessed right… She took a step closer to him. 'You wouldn't kill me because… because you know me, even if I'm just a Mudblood to you. And it's hard enough to kill people you don't even know the names of…'

She'd been right; he swerved round, face ash-white and terrified. 'Shut up!' he shouted, sharp and quick, and she did, waiting for him to say something else. He didn't, but after a few seconds he turned away and leant against the wall, right forearm pressed to the cool stone, head pressed against the arm, eyes closed, hands curled into loose fists and shivering.

Hermione paused for a few seconds, feeling slightly guilty over saying something that had clearly upset him, but she resolved herself. She could consider Malfoy's happiness when she'd found out what was going on.

'Malfoy…' she began. 'I just want to know what's going on, and then I won't say anything else about it. Not to anyone.'

He took a deep breath. 'Fine,' he spat. 'But somewhere private.'

Hermione bit her lip and nodded, then realised that he couldn't see her and said 'Okay,' instead. 'I… I know somewhere. Follow me.'

The Room of Requirement was the best place – it was never used except for last year's DA meetings. Still, she wouldn't have used it, except that he already knew after being on Umbridge's Inquisitorial Squad, and the fact that it was the only truly safe place. He followed her there in silence.

What did she want? _Somewhere we can talk, somewhere secure and_ – glancing at Malfoy's expression – _relaxing_, she thought as she walked back and forth in the corridor. When the door appeared, he followed her in silently.

The room looked fairly cosy; the walls were a cheery butter-yellow with a pleasantly warm fire burning in a fireplace. There were two sofas and a small wooden coffee table, with two steaming cups of what smelt like hot chocolate thoughtfully resting on it. A yellow rug, thick and woolly, covered the smooth wooden floor.

The sofas were where it went a little odd. One sofa was a deep shade of blue, slightly battered, and so similar in shape and colour to one at Hermione's home that she thought for a moment it was the same one, until she spotted the differences. The other sofa, however, was deep black leather and contrived to look completely uncomfortable, with an intricately carved mahogany panel at the rear. Its effect, in the small and cheerful room, was to look completely out of place, as though a furniture shop had confused the purchases of a small suburban cottage and a vast, imposing mansion.

It was due, Hermione supposed, to different perceptions of what was relaxing. Who knew? Maybe Malfoy had a sofa eerily similar to that one at his house.

Without speaking, they sat down on their respective sofas. Malfoy looked impossibly out of place, sitting stiffly on the black leather with his arms defensively crossed. Hermione picked up one mug of hot chocolate to give her something to do with her hands, sipped at it, and winced as she burnt her tongue.

A few moments passed like that, in silence, before Malfoy said, 'Well?'

Hermione sighed, put down the mug, and tried to decide what to ask about first. It didn't help that Malfoy was sneering at her from across the room, and the whole situation was too tense, and she didn't know where to begin.

'Why?' seemed like a fairly good starting place.

'Why _what_, Mudblood?'

She forced herself not to react. Somehow it was easier when she knew Malfoy was doing it defensively. 'Why… why did you join _him_?'

He didn't answer, simply looked away. Hermione sighed. 'Because you wanted to? Or were you made to?' He still didn't respond, and felt a flash of annoyance. True, she was the one who'd demanded to talk to him, but…

'Look, Malfoy, I just want to know why…'

'I joined because I wanted to,' he said, interrupting her, his voice oddly distant. 'Okay? Why else would I have joined?'

Hermione gave a small shrug. 'I don't know. You might have been pressured into it…'

He scoffed. 'Don't give me any of that rubbish, Granger.' He looked at her, then, and his eyes flashed. 'Mudbloods and Muggles don't deserve to live. They're filthy and ignorant and destroying Pureblood society. They _should_ be wiped out.' It was a short speech, but vehement and somehow sincere, and Hermione shuddered. She picked up the mug again, took a long drink.

'Do you really-'

'Yes, I mean it.' Malfoy spat, and raised his head in a haughty manner. 'Your kind disgusts me, Granger. Common Muggle blood coming into our schools with no idea about wizarding tradition or culture or society, taking wizarding jobs, marrying wizarding families and marring their bloodlines… They're _subhuman_.' He didn't shout, or hiss, or spit, but there was something quietly furious in his voice, and Hermione shivered. He believed what he was saying.

But this wasn't the time to get into a debate on bloodlines. Breathing deeply, Hermione put her mug down – the liquid in it was visibly shaking – and sat back again. 'But you can't kill us,' she said.

He flinched, very visibly. 'Check your facts, Granger,' he said in a tone that was half mockery, half fear. 'I already have.'

'And you're going mad,' she replied firmly, bitterly. 'Mad from killing us, from killing Muggles,' she said, and gave a short bitter laugh that was half a sob. She may have been determined not to get into an argument about bloodlines, but that didn't mean she wasn't affected; fear had now turned to a kind of desperation, a voice pleading _why do you believe those lies_ in her head, and anger. 'That's a bit contradictory of you, isn't it? Killing _subhumans_ sends you mad…'

'Shut up,' he whispered. His eyes were wide, silvery. 'Stop it.'

She paused, looking up at him, clutching both her elbows with the opposite arm in an attempt to stop them shivering. 'Would you kill me?' she asked. 'If Voldemort captured me and brought me to the meeting, or they attacked my house in summer, and he told you to kill me…'

'Stop it!' Malfoy half-shouted, his face impossibly pale. He screwed his eyes shut, raised his hands to them, curled into little fists and pressed against his forehead. 'Stop it!'

'Answer me,' she replied, sharply, feeling something horribly like fear and horror rise in the back of her throat. 'Answer me…'

'Yes!' he shouted, the cry seeming to be ripped out of him by some other force. 'Yes, I would, you don't understand, I don't have a choice…' He paused suddenly, simply stopped in mid-flow, while Hermione was still feeling sick at the idea that he _would_ kill her. He was staring at her, wide-eyed and horrified, then he pulled his legs quickly up onto the sofa and scrambled to the far end of it, knees to his chest and staring at her as though she'd risen from the dead.

'Go away,' he whispered. 'Go away…'

Hermione frowned, conflicted. He'd kill her, he'd admitted that himself, but he'd said he didn't have a choice… And now he was acting so…

'What's wrong?' she asked softly. This, if anything, appeared to frighten him even more.

'You're dead,' he said, very quickly, hunched up against the corner of the sofa and looking for all the world like a toddler frightened of a horror film. 'I killed you. You're dead…'

'Malfoy?' Hermione asked, getting to her feet. 'I'm not dead. It's okay. You didn't…'

'Don't come near me!' he almost shrieked, scrabbling at the back of the sofa. 'You're dead, go away, never shake thy gory locks at me!'

She paused, held up her hands. 'I'm not dead,' she repeated slowly, half-wondering whether she might have died and not noticed. 'I'm alive. Look. Flesh and blood.'

He shook his head. 'Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold…' he paused, gave an odd sound hat was almost a choke, raising his hands to his face and staring at them. 'Blood.'

'I'm not dead,' Hermione repeated, feeling almost panicked. 'There isn't any blood, it's all in your head…'

Malfoy paused, staring up at her. 'Are you sure?'

'Yes,' she replied. 'I'm alive. Not dead. Alive, and you didn't kill me.'

He looked at her, rather disbelievingly, and then hid his face rather clumsily behind his arms and was silent. Hermione didn't dare go closer; it might set him off again. She cursed herself; why had she said that in the first place? It had seemed a good idea, to annoy him into revealing something, and she'd desperately needed to _know _besides. She hadn't meant to cause _this_.

'Malfoy?' she asked, when he hadn't moved for a few minutes. 'Are you…'

'I'm fine,' he whispered. 'Fine. Granger… go.'

It was probably best to do as he said, though somehow she didn't want to leave him alone. Still, if he wanted her to leave… At the door, she paused, looking back. She had all her answers, when she thought about it.

'I won't tell anyone,' she promised quickly, and left.

* * *

**A/N:** I've noticed a curious phenomenon with these final ANs. If I threaten or bribe you to review – or ask a question – I always get noticeably more reviews than when I just ask for reviews. I've been wondering if I could do a psychological experiment to get it to work, but can't think of any possible way to make it work, which is a pity. What do you think? Review, or I'll send the Typo Demons to gnaw on your fingernails. All reviewers get imaginary chocolate, sweets, or foodstuff of their choice.

Review!


	10. Act Three, Scene Three

Macbeth: Act Three, Scene Three

**Disclaimer: **No, I don't own any of it. It's all JKRowlings apart from the bits which are Shakespeare's.

**Thanks for 371 reviews goes to:** SycoCallie, Plaidly Lush, Marie Adele, Sparkling Cherries, Go10, Opalfire, ToOtHpIck, SilverMoonset, Madam Midnight, FalconWing, samhaincat, jaderabbit, the road to damascus, draconas, A little confused, MiRoRmInX, Flexi Lexi (x2), I-luv-Harry-Potter-Romance, the hope conspiracy, Scaz85, Janie Granger (x2), Bella, langocska, stargazer starluver, KawaiiRyu, Silvestria, kessi1011, SandryLark, willowfairy, darkcherry, Munching Munchkin Management, Lisi, Poojies, Nikki, Genevieve Jones, ablakevh, Magellen-chan, Alexathenle, CrystallizedSnow, insanemaniac, WWJD4mE2LiVe, brettley, sugar n spice522, Stoneage Woman, abi-j, cuznhottie.

**A/N:** Yes, this is a day later than I said it'd be. This was due to computer failure, which made it rather difficult to write… As a consequence, the final scene is completely unbetaed, so I hope you can forgive any problems until I manage to find someone to beta it – I'll repost it with errors changed tomorrow. Another consequence is that I haven't learned any psychology beyond duration of memory, so you'd better hope I get asked about that on tomorrow's test! (Don't worry, I have a long bus journey, and I'm very good at last minute revision.)

Oh, and regarding characters resembling their Shakespeare characters: as a general rule, the more screwed up the person, the more they resemble a character. And yes, the romance cometh pretty soon now.

With that, onto the chapter. Enjoy!

* * *

_Malfoy,_

_We need to practice some more. Could we do Act 1, Scenes 5 and 7? I'll be in the library at eight tomorrow, in the usual place. Owl me to say if you can make it or not._

_-Hermione._

It had taken her a week to write that note.

Quite a lot had happened in the meantime. Malfoy had been avoiding her, it seemed: on the few occasions they'd passed in corridors or shared a lesson he had acted as though she wasn't there, and in the Great Hall at mealtimes he sat with his back to the Gryffindor table. They had seen each other at a practice, but not alone together. It had been a large one, the feast in Act 3 Scene 4, where the Ghost of Banquo, who Macbeth had arranged the murder of, appeared in the middle of a feast, visible only to Macbeth. _Never shake thy gory locks at me._

If you didn't count his lines – and Hermione didn't - he hadn't said a word to her all practice.

She would have been quite happy to avoid him in return, but for the fact that they still had to do the play, and she couldn't really go to the directors and explain why she didn't want to rehearse with him anymore. Logically, she knew that she ought to tell someone that Malfoy had the Dark Mark, but emotionally she couldn't brink herself to do it. She'd seen something that she wasn't meant to see – not the Dark Mark, but his _madness_. To tell someone about that would feel like betrayal, to tell them that he was a Death Eater and miss out his obvious guilt would feel equally wrong.

Which left her keeping his secret, and consequently having to rehearse with him.

He didn't reply to her owl, but she went to the library at eight anyway and found him there, sitting silently at the desk, his shoulders tense and face pale with his copy of the script in hand.

He looked up at her entrance, and his hand twitched, but he glanced back at the words again, nodded in greeting and didn't speak. Hermione sat beside him, not saying anything either. Usually she liked the comparative silence of the library, the studious quiet that hung around the bookshelves, but now the silence felt as though it were choking her. She glanced at the area where Malfoy almost had choked her, literally, and shivered very slightly.

If he noticed, he made no sign. The silence stretched on while she rummaged for her copy of the script, opened it, found the right place, and then another piece of blank time while neither of them spoke, neither wanting to be the one to speak first. They ought to be standing up, acting it properly, but Hermione didn't dare suggest it. Better to stick with what they were used to.

In the end, it was Malfoy, very softly and without looking at her. 'Start from, 'Come, thick night,' he suggested, and she did.

'Come, thick night, and pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell, that my keen knife-' She paused, glancing over to Malfoy, feeling suddenly nervous. Going through lines had set him off before, what if it did again? 'That my k-keen knife see not the wound it makes…'

He glanced at her and then away again, his expression unreadable. 'Start again?' he suggested.

Hermione nodded and took a deep breath, telling herself not to be so silly. Malfoy would be fine, there wasn't too much that was graphic in these scenes, and if there were something that set him off… well, she'd be okay. She had her wand, and there were others in the library who could hear her if she screamed. It was perfectly safe.

'Come, thick night,' she began, trying to give it the murderous, bloody, evil lustre she had practiced, but her voice was a pitch higher than usual. 'And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell, that my keen knife see not the wound it makes,' her eyes flicked to Malfoy, 'nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark to cry 'Hold, hold!'

She managed to sound somewhat normal, but Malfoy's eyes were closed too tightly, and his face was too pale, as though all the blood had drained out of it and left him a corpse. 'Are you…?' she began, tentatively.

'Fine,' he snapped. 'It's your line.' His hand, where it clutched the script, was so tightly clenched that his knuckles were pure white.

Not entirely certain, she picked up her script again. _That my keen knife see not the wound it makes_ – was that what went on his mind? Trying not to see what he was doing, to pretend it never happened, all the evils and tortures and attacks that Hermione could only imagine, or glean details about from the newspaper. She couldn't tell what he was thinking.

'Great Glamis! Worthy Cawdor!' she began, fully aware that she sounded sharp and nervous rather than joyful and slightly murderous as she was supposed to. 'Greater than both, by the all-hail hereafter! They letters have transported me beyond,' with disdain, which she managed, 'this ignorant present, and I see now,' back to excitement, 'the future in the instant.'

'My dearest love,' Malfoy began, and Hermione could only marvel at the way he only paused a second too long before starting, and managed to fill his voice with all his usual feeling, no hint of insanity whatsoever. 'Duncan comes here tonight.'

The rest of that scene went comparatively well. They didn't speak of the murder graphically – she alluded to it, of course, with 'this night's great business', but he seemed fine so long as they didn't state it directly. And when he was fine, she was fine; it was easier to relax into the acting when he was calm about it. They ran through it a second time, and Hermione managed not to stumble over the 'keen knife', and a third time she managed to suggest that they stand up and act it through properly.

'Leave all the rest to me,' she finished, a half-smile on her lips as she raised a finger to his and they stepped 'offstage'. He turned his face away, looking towards the bookshelves. 'Shall we do the other scene?'

Suddenly unsure, Hermione nodded. The next scene contained much more direct reference to murder, she was sure, and she didn't want him to go mad on her again.

'I'll start,' he said in quite a quiet voice, flicking through the pages to find the next scene and then smoothing down the spine of the book with an elegant finger. He paused before starting, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, and for a moment Hermione fully expected him to be mad when he opened them.

It came as something of a surprise when he said, 'I have no spur to prick the sides of my intent,' therefore, because it took her a moment for her to realise that this was what he was meant to be saying and not some half-mad rambled quote. 'But only vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself and falls upon the other.'

Pause, to allow time for the _Enter Lady Macbeth_, and then, 'How now! What news?'

She was meant to sound annoyed here. Looking up at him, she managed to take a deep breath and produce something more like an indignant squeak. 'He hath almost supp'd: why have you left the chamber?'

Malfoy, she noticed, hadn't commented once on her seeming inability to act that day. But then, of course, he knew already why she was on edge, and if he brought the topic up… And it would mean talking to each other more than strictly neccecary.

'Hath he ask'd for me?' Malfoy asked offhandedly.

'Know you not he has?' she asked, managing something more like irritation this time, He turned away from her, facing their imaginary audience. 'We will proceed no further in this business,' he said, quite firmly. 'He hath honour'd me of late; and I have bought golden opinions from all sorts of people, which would be worn now in their newest gloss, not cast aside so soon.'

For a wild, bizarre moment she wondered if Voldemort had 'honoured him of late', then shuddered at the thought. Summoning up all the anger she could manage, she stepped across to him. 'Was the hope drunk wherein you dress'd yourself?' she asked angrily; he pulled away from her and walked a short way away. She followed him, caught his arm. 'Hath it slept since? And wakes it now to look so green and pale at what it did so freely?'

He flinched and stepped away from her again, turning his head away – just as he was supposed to – and she caught his arm, forced him to turn and face her. 'From this time,' she hissed, getting into the acting now, 'such I account thy love.' He pulled away, turned his back on her. 'Art thou afeard to be the same in thine own act and valour as thou art in desire?' she asked incredulously. 'Wouldst thou have that which thou esteem'st the ornament of live, and live a _coward_-' he flinched '-in thine own esteem…'

He interrupted. 'Granger…'

She couldn't see his face, and his tone was so neutral that she couldn't tell why he stopped her, but she was silent anyway, watching him. Had she set him off? What exactly had she said? A coward in thine own esteem…

After a few moment, he took a deep breath and drew himself upright. 'Go on,' he ordered.

She did, and nothing else untoward happened for the rest of the rehearsal.

* * *

Going from the library to the common room was like passing through some magical mirror that reflected not what was actually there but its complete opposite. The library had been quiet, tense and filled with muted colours; this was loud, relaxed and filled with every shade of red and gold imaginable.

'Hermione!' Ron called out from near the fireplace, leaning over the arm of the sofa and grinning at her. A bottle of Butterbeer dangled from one hand. 'How was it?'

'Okay,' she called back as she picked her way across the room, regretting – for a brief moment – the fact that there was no way she could tell them about what was really happening. 'It went fine, I guess.' Harry passed her a Butterbeer; she thanked him and opened it.

'No trouble with Malfoy?' Ron asked.

Did trouble include having to tiptoe round his insanity, or being afraid he'd go completely mad on you? 'Not really,' she replied. 'We didn't talk much apart from the play.'

Harry shook his head pensively. 'Don't know how you manage it,' he admitted. 'I'm going to have to do extra practices with him – the sword fighting, you know – and I'm never going to be able to put up with him. We'll end up killing each other.'

Ron snorted. 'I thought you're the one who's meant to be killing him?' he asked.

'If I can hold the sword straight next time,' Harry replied, shrugging. They'd had a second rehearsal a few days ago, as the first one had been so rudely interrupted by Peeves. Hermione had been scared stiff all through it. The first time Harry had stabbed him through the heart, and the blood had started spurting everywhere and he'd crumpled to the floor, dead, she'd almost screamed. But then he'd got up and they cleaned off the blood with a Scourgify. And then did it again, and she was just as terrified that time, and the next, and the next.

Ron had been there too, under Harry's Cloak – only cast members could attend the rehearsals – and he'd laughed himself silly. Especially when Harry, who was rather clumsy with the sword, has misaimed completely and stabbed Malfoy through the head. Everyone had been in hysterics, apart from an irritated Malfoy, an embarrassed Harry, and Hermione.

'It really makes me nervous doing the sword fighting,' Harry remarked, taking another sip of his Butterbeer. 'I mean, standing in front of Malfoy when he's holding a lethal weapon…'

'The swords have charms on, though, don't they?' Ron asked.

'Yeah, but what if they don't work, or he takes them off?' Harry asked, and Hermione's mind was filled with a sudden memory; the way Draco had knelt on the floor, that strange light in his eyes and said _Help me_, and _Adrian left them lying around the common room, you see, so I changed the charms…_

She shivered.

Ron, beside her, snickered. 'If the charms don't work and you kill Malfoy? They'll probably give you a medal,' he told them with a grin. Harry laughed; Hermione didn't.

* * *

Malfoy was at the rehearsal, two rows in front of her and a little to the left, face fixed on the stage.

Why was he here? This rehearsal was for the witches, and apart from herself, him and the directors, no one else was here. She'd come because Ginny wanted her too, and being in the rehearsals helped her think about her own acting, helped her in some way see the play as a whole. Plus, they were quite peaceful; if she wanted to, no one was going to tell her off for slipping into her own thoughts, her own imaginations.

As for Malfoy? He could be here for Blaise's benefit, she supposed. She didn't even know if he and Blaise were friends. Or he could be here to think, or to consider acting, or for some strange, madness-related reason, or…

There was no way she could guess. He was here, and watching the performance, and that was all she knew.

How long had it been since she found out his secret. More than a week; almost two, and she still hadn't told anyone. And wasn't planning on telling anyone either. They'd barely spoken, apart from the most minimal of practices, but what she had seen of him had been intriguing.

He was mad. Half-mad, anyway; it seemed to come in bouts, set off by any strong reference to murder or death or killing such as were found in vast quantities in the play. Hermione wondered if anyone else would notice. She was the only one who had to work with him in very close situations where the play talked about death a lot. In the director-led rehearsals he seemed a lot better. Why was that? More pressure to control himself, or could he remind himself more easily that this was only a play? Or was it simply less noticeable with more people around?

There was so much she simply didn't know, and wasn't ever going to find out unless he told her, and that was unlikely. They'd carry on as they had been for the past week, with minimal rehearsals and minimal discussion of the issue, and survive it somehow, and then the topic would never come up. She'd never tell anyone, and he'd act as though she didn't know. Simple.

She didn't like it. She didn't like not knowing, but there was no way she could force him to reveal more, short of blackmail and threats, and while she considered that for a wild moment she forbade herself to even think of doing it.

Which left what she did know: he was mad, and the cause of that – it seemed – was his being a Death Eater. She still didn't feel comfortable thinking that, as though she was whispering it guiltily in a dark corner of her mind. Hermione told herself off; it was the truth, and while it was unpleasant she shouldn't be trying to pretend it wasn't there. She thought the words very slowly and clearly, Draco Malfoy Is A Death Eater, and felt better.

Which of course posed the question of why exactly he'd become one in the first place, which brought up all kinds of things about his parents and his upbringing and his beliefs that were simply too complicated to consider. Perhaps he'd been coerced into it, or had wanted to do it but been ignorant of what it truly entailed, or known what happened but hadn't realised it would send him insane…

Perhaps it wasn't killing people that was having this effect on him. He'd never seemed to care about hurting people before, verbally or physically, though killing people was of course a lot more severe. It could, of course, be something else. Like Voldemort; she knew what he was like to his Death Eaters – often treating them little better than the Muggles he hated – so perhaps it was that which was driving him mad. It could even be the Cruciatius, and then he was transferring that torture to his torture of Muggles in his insanity. Perhaps…

There were too many possibilities to consider. Without talking to him, without knowing him better, there was no way she could know. And of course, without knowing she couldn't decide what to do about him; whether to tell someone or try to help him in some other way. But then she couldn't tell anyone, could she?

Sighing, she turned her gaze away from the back of Malfoy's blond head and looked instead at the witches, partway through Act One, Scene One. They were a lot better than last time; they'd obviously been practicing, and they worked a lot better as a team, too. Ginny in particular…

All the lights went out, plunging the room into sudden darkness, and a voice from the roof called out 'Let not light see my black and deep desires!'

'_Peeves_!' came Megan's furious cry from the front of the room, and a murmur from the directors. 'Dumbledore will hear about this! You've messed up the rehearsals for the last time!'

Peeves' answer to this was a ghostly giggle, and then all was darkness and silence but for the noise of people searching for their wands. Hermione tried to grope for hers, but in the darkness she couldn't even find her schoolbag. It was incredibly disorientating; there should have been at least a little light from the doorway and windows, but Peeves had obviously done something to prevent that as well. It was rather like what people imagine blindness must be like.

'Peeves,' came Ruth's voice, calm as always, 'have you hidden our schoolbags?'

Another giggle. 'Maybe,' came the reply, to be greeted by a furious yell from Megan.

'You're lucky I have my wand in my sleeve, aren't you?' came another voice, a drawl; it took her a moment to recognise it as Adrian's. '_Orbislucis.'_

All of a sudden there was light; a pale, eerie orb of it which floated, bobbing slightly and swirling in the air, coasting gently on the air currents. He muttered the spell again and a few more appeared, lighting the room in an ominous light and revealing both the missing schoolbags in one corner and Peeves, floating angrily near the ceiling.

'Spoilsport,' he muttered, flipping upside down and waggling his bottom in Adrian's general direction.

Olivia, meanwhile, seemed entranced by the orbs of light. 'What spell is that?' she asked, reaching out to touch one; it swirled around her hand. 'I've never read it before…'

'It's an old one,' Adrian said, shrugging. 'My mother taught it me.'

Stan looked fairly impressed as well. 'They're gorgeous,' he proclaimed, examining one critically. 'So… witchy.'

Megan gave Adrian a critical eye. 'Well, looks like you've done something right for once, even if it was complete accident,' she sniffed, before turning to the company. 'Do you think we should use them in all the witch scenes? They're really atmospheric with the lighting off, they'd look great.'

'I really like them,' Blaise said, nodding, and the others agreed; Adrian just sat there, smiling rather smugly.

In all that time, Hermione realised, Malfoy's eyes hadn't moved from the stage, as though he were watching some performance taking place entirely in his own mind which had nothing to do with reality at all.

* * *

**A/N:** _Orbislucis_, or _orbis lucis_, means 'orb of light'. I wrote it the former way instead of the patter purely because it looked better.

Earlier today I had an absolutely terrifyingly horrible experience. It was presentation evening, where the headmistress says a little bit about you and then gives you this pretty file with your exam certificates in. She was in the common room asking people if her information on us was correct. My description began, 'Helen is an avid writer…'

'Of course,' she said to me, 'I know you're an avid writer. You wrote a Harry potter book a while ago, didn't you?'

I very nearly keeled over and died. To make me feel better: what was your most embarrassing experience related to the HP fandom? Review!


	11. Act Three, Scene Four

Macbeth: Act Three, Scene Four

**Disclaimer: **Macbeth was, of course, written by Shakespeare, and Harry Potter by JKRowling. The amalgam of the two was, however, my fault utterly – apologies to both!

**Thanks for 418 reviews goes to:** PsYcHoJo, Jules37, Jaid Ziaen, thatonechic, Nathonea, FalconWing, darkcherry, Orchid6297, Go10, KawaiiRyu, ToOtHpIcK, willowfairy, samhaincat, Periannath (x2), draconas, citcat299, Flexi Lexi, RedWitch1, heavengurl899 (x5), SycoCallie, blueberry girl, abi-j, Avelynn Tame, Silver Moonset, Genevieve Jones, annikodomo, Janie Granger, plumsy321, Stoneage Woman, ablakevh, Pheonix, brettley, Munching Munchkin Management, C. Argentum, Daisy Miller, Dark Biscuit, Tayz, MiRoRmInX.

**A/N:** Well, we've all heard of fantasy reflecting reality: now reality appears to be reflecting this story. Yes. I have an audition on Thursday.

Sadly, it isn't for Macbeth, and there are no attractive blonds of dubious evil with the initials DM (my initials, incidentally, are HG) waiting for me to discover their impending insanity. It should prove to be very interesting, though, because the play actually hasn't been written yet.

We're going to have a playwright coming into school and 20 of us will be doing workshops with her to come up with ideas, characters et cetera, and then next yea we'll be acting in it. I haven't done much acting before, mainly because my school has a predilection for musicals and my singing is abominable but hey, no singing here, so I'm going out on a limb and taking the chance.

Anyway, wish me luck for Thursday, and onto the story. Enjoy!

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'Observe,' Snape addressed the class, 'the manner in which Mr Malfoy has ground his dried nettles.' He held up Malfoy's mortar, angling it so that the class could see. 'Note that the leaves have been finely ground into a light powder, and there are _no_ large lumps of nettle remaining.' His gaze, slightly narrowed, swept the room and paused for the briefest of scathing moments on Ron, who had declared his nettles ground after his arm had gotten tired five minutes ago. There were still large chunks of nettle among his powder.

Snape replaced Malfoy's mortar on the table with his usual thin smile. 'Excellent work, Mr Malfoy. Ten points to Slytherin,' he said with a nod, before turning and sweeping away, glaring darkly at the room in general. Perhaps it was Hermione's imagination, but he looked paler than usual.

'Prat,' Ron muttered, picking up his mortar and beginning to grind the nettle again. 'Look at Mr Malfoy's _this_ and how wonderful is Mr Malfoy's _that_…'

Hermione nodded, carefully stirring her potion and counting under her breath. They were making the _Auditus_ Potion, which was historically used by spies in order to enhance their hearing. The picture in the textbook showed something ominously black and rather tar-like in appearance. Despite appearances, however, it was an incredibly delicate and tricky potion.

'… and Mr Malfoy's perfect nettles,' Ron finished, grumbling and gesturing sharply with his pestle. 'Hermione, is this powder fine enough?'

She glanced at his mortar. 'I think you need to keep going a bit longer. And keep your voice down, we aren't meant to be talking.'

'He doesn't mind when Malfoy talks to people,' Ron said darkly. 'Honestly, the way Snape goes on about Malfoy…'

Harry picked up his own finely-ground nettles, took a pre-weighed amount of crushed dragon scale in his left hand and carefully added the two simultaneously before turning the heat down and allowing it to simmer. 'Malfoy's always been his favourite,' he muttered, frowning as his potion began to turn aubergine. 'Hermione? Is it meant to do that?'

'What? Oh, yes,' she said distractedly, adding her own nettles and dragon scales before sitting back to let it simmer. 'Then you leave it for five minutes, and then…'

Snape's voice cut into the conversation. 'Miss Patil,' he said, a note of cruel malice in his voice, 'what is this?'

Their heads immediately swivelled to see Parvati, two tables behind, standing timidly by her cauldron. 'The _Auditus_ potion, Professor,' she offered quietly. From a distance, it did look correct; the surface of the potion was shimmering a perfect shade of deep purple.

'Then tell me, Miss Patil, how much dragon scale you added to your cauldron?' Snape asked, raising a sharp eyebrow and fixing one of his most intimidating stares on her. Parvati gulped.

'One hundred and fifty grams, Professor. Like it says in the textbook. Professor.' Parvati replied quickly.

Snape stirred the cauldron once, raising the spoon out of the mixture and allowing the viscous mixture to slide off it. 'Are you certain, Miss Patil?' he asked silkily. 'Does the textbook say that the potion should give off the scent of rotten eggs at this stage?'

'No, Professor,' Parvati replied, looking down at the table top.

'In that case, Miss Patil, would you care to enlighten the class on how you have managed to add the correct amount of dragon scale to your potion and still managed to produce the incorrect mixture?' Snape asked, his tone incredibly light for the amount of scathing venom he put into it.

Parvati shook her head numbly and bit her lip, and with something remarkably like a sneer, Snape Vanished the contents of her cauldron and stalked back to the front of the class.

Ron was grinding his nettles rather harder than was strictly necessary. '_I_ couldn't smell any rotten eggs,' he whispered sharply to Harry. 'I don't even think it did smell of rotten eggs, I bet he was making it up.'

Hermione frowned. 'I don't think he'd go that far,' she replied, 'he'd pick on someone who'd got it wrong, yes, but not on someone who hadn't…'

'He's a prat,' Ron said savagely, punctuating this with a particularly hard grind of his nettles, 'a complete and utter prat! And even if it did small of rotten eggs, it's not that big a mistake, is it?'

'It could make the potion poisonous,' Hermione pointed out, trying to be fair. 'But he was really mean.'

Harry, meanwhile, was frowning at his potion. 'You don't think mine smells, do you? Just a little?' he asked, rather worried.

Hermione assured him it didn't, and then Ron said that Snape would probably say it did anyway, and Harry probably replied but Hermione's attention had wandered. Certainly Snape was being particularly snappish today, but she wasn't particularly in the mood to discuss it endlessly. Snape was currently pacing around the classroom, glaring at the contents of everyone's cauldrons. It might have been the angle of the light – the fires from the cauldrons cast light upwards onto peoples faces, which made sharp shadows fall in unexpected places – but when he wasn't glaring or scowling or sneering, Snape looked tired.

Ron, at this point, was crushing his dragon scale. 'I swear he's going to go mad one day and burn the Potions classroom down because someone added the ingredients in the wrong order. With us inside it,' he added darkly. Snape was on the other side of the room, criticising the colour of a potion.

'Don't be silly, Ron,' Hermione said, only half her mind on what she was saying. 'Snape may be mean, but he's not insane.'

'And he wouldn't burn down his precious Potions lab,' Harry added, but Hermione's mind had drifted again to the table behind the one where Snape was currently sneering at the luckless person whose potion was turning lilac, where Malfoy was sitting. He appeared to have reached the five-minute simmering stage, and was resting his head in the crook of his arm, bent over the table, eyes closed and looking so peaceful that Hermione wondered if he might be sleeping. His face was relaxed and still, the paleness of his skin given quite an attractive cast by the flickering gold of the flames, and in that instant he looked so innocent that it was easy to forget what he was, what he'd done.

Then his eyes opened and the illusion was shattered, because for the briefest of moments after he opened his eyes Hermione could see a kind of pain in them which was at once frightening and terrible, and she started and looked away, feeling as though she'd seen something she shouldn't have, something forbidden.

'And of course, if you do the slightest thing wrong,' Ron was saying, now firmly into his rant, as he picked up his dragon scale, 'he picks on you, if it's slightly the wrong shade of purple or if it doesn't smell quite right it's an utter failure.'

'Er, Ron?' Harry interjected. 'You've got to add the nettle and the dragon scale together…'

Ron wasn't paying attention. 'Unless you're a Slytherin, of course, you can end up with a cauldron of tomato soup and he'll still say…'

'Ron!' Hermione hissed, but Ron didn't hear, starting to tip the dragon scale into the cauldron, and quick as a flash Harry grabbed the nettle and tipped it in too, quickly saving the potion from complete ruin.

'Quick thinking,' Hermione congratulated Harry, who quickly sat down and began to look as though he'd done nothing. It wasn't enough.

'Mr Potter,' Snape said quietly and coolly, a small smile on his face as he crossed the classroom, 'Could you repeat the instructions I gave to the class a the beginning of the lesson, please?'

Harry took a deep breath. Snape had expressly forbidden working together in any way, shape or form. 'Which instruction, Professor?' he asked innocently, trying to buy time.

Snape smiled thinly. 'I should not expect someone of your limited brain capacity to remember,' he said coldly. 'The instruction about working together, Mr Potter. Did I not explicitly instruct you to refrain from doing so?'

'You did,' Harry replied. The whole class was silent, as usual.

'And would you kindly inform me what you did with Mr Weasley's cauldron a moment ago?' Snape continued.

'I added his powdered nettle, because he'd forgotten it, Professor,' Harry replied, staring straight ahead. Hermione bit her lip; she wanted to defend Harry, but she knew that if she did so she'd just get herself into trouble. She glanced sideways at Ron, and knew that he felt the same.

'And would this constitute working together, Mr Potter?' Snape asked, his voice smooth with a kind of malice in it.

Harry sighed. 'Probably, Professor.'

'As I thought. _Evanesco_,' he muttered, and the contents of both Harry and Ron's cauldrons vanished. 'Begin again, please. Twenty points from Gryffindor,' he snapped, and then leaned slightly closer to Harry, a dark malice in his eyes that was somehow frightening. In a lowered voice, he added, 'I thought you would have learnt your lesson about _rescuing people_ after last year, Potter.'

And then he turned sharply and walked away, leaving Hermione and Ron gaping at him and Harry's skin rapidly paling.

'What?' Ron was the first to speak. 'How can he… who does the think…. Harry, mate, are you okay?'

'Fine,' Harry replied, after a pause, and shook his head. 'I just… no, I'm fine.' His hand was shaking slightly; he clenched it.

'No, you aren't,' Ron replied adamantly. 'Merlin, if I could get my hands on him I'd hex him till he turned _orange_.'

'He's just trying to upset you,' Hermione offered. 'Ignore him. Concentrate on the potion.'

'Yeah,' Harry replied, slightly shakily, pulling some more dried nettles towards him. 'The potion. Yeah.'

Hermione and Ron shared a glance, and anger began to simmer just under Hermione's breastbone, as though someone had lit a flame there. How dare Snape do that! Mean he could be, yes, but reminding Harry of Sirius? With no purpose other than to upset him? Forget hexing; she wanted to take something sharp and vicious and simply _stab_.

The five minutes were up, and Hermione stood up slowly and began to stir her potion. To her right, Malfoy had already completed the second-to-last stage, and Snape was rapidly bearing down upon him.

'Superb, Mr Malfoy,' he was heard to mutter. 'Class, look at this potion. This deep reddish-purple colour,' he scooped some of the thick substance out of the cauldron and let it slide slowly back in off the spoon, 'and thick viscosity is exactly what you are aiming for before the final ingredients are added.' He paused, and frowned slightly before saying, 'I commend you on your potion, Mr Malfoy.'

Malfoy nodded and picked up his pestle and mortar again, intending to grind the beetle shells that would finish the potion off, and the rest of the class returned to their potions. Still stirring the potion with her left hand, Hermione was the last to turn back, and consequently the only person to see the look that passed over Snape's face for the briefest instant as he glanced at Malfoy.

It was a look, if anything, of disappointment; perhaps responsibility, perhaps guilt, and it was there for the time it took for the fires beneath their cauldrons to flicker once, and then gone.

Hermione glanced back to Snape, surprised, but he was faintly sneering again and completely back to normal. What on earth…? Disappointed in Malfoy? For all that Snape over-praised him, Malfoy was actually fairly good at Potions, and she'd seen herself that his Auditus potion was perfectly correct, so why…?

And then she realised, with a sudden bolt of surprise so great that she stopped stirring for a moment, before remembering herself and continuing.

Snape knew Malfoy was a Death Eater.

He was a spy for the Order, so he would have been at the meetings, he'd have seen Malfoy there, doing… whatever it was he did, she didn't want to think. And of course he'd been disappointed, because he'd known Malfoy since he was in first year, been his Head of House and teacher, and of course he'd be disappointed that Malfoy was a Death Eater.

Did he know that Malfoy was going insane? She doubted it; he wouldn't be disappointed if he did. He'd be worried, perhaps, but disappointment was for when Malfoy was a murderer and enjoyed it, when he was evil, not when he was a murderer and was being driven mad by it. You weren't disappointed when people had a conscience, not if you were Snape.

Was that why Snape was more snappish than usual? Hermione didn't know, but she was willing to bet it was a part of the problem.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Draco was waiting in their usual place, the little enclave created by bookshelves in the far corner of the library, and he didn't look up when she entered. In one hand, his left, he was holding a quill; as black as the cloak he was wearing with a sharp silver nib, which he was examining in minute detail. His right hand lay loosely clenched on the table, beside his copy of the play.

'Malfoy?' she asked, not sure if he'd noticed her, stepping into the room. Very slowly, he looked up and smiled – an oddly twisted smile – when he saw her.

'Granger,' he said, as a greeting, and put the quill down, curling his left hand around his right. 'I… shall we begin?'

Mutely, she nodded, putting her bag down on the edge of the table and pulling out her script. They were doing Act Two, Scene Two that night, the one where they murdered King Duncan, and she was half-expecting him to go mad on her. It didn't help that he already seemed on edge before she came in.

She turned to the right place in the script, assumed her position, and began, trying to focus on the acting as far as possible and not on Malfoy's likely descent into insanity. 'That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold; what hath quench'd them hath given me fire,' she began, trying to say it slowly and firmly like a mantra, which wasn't that difficult considering Malfoy. Then she twitched, looking around wildly as though startled. 'Hark! Peace!' she cried, then tried to calm herself. 'It was the owl that shrieked…'

It wasn't a particularly long passage, but it felt like forever until she came to 'Had he not resembled my father as he slept, I had done't.'

And then _Enter_ _Macbeth_. 'My husband!' cried Hermione, hurrying over to him, which meant that she was close enough to see the oddly haunted look in his eyes as he spoke, slowly and clearly and almost disbelievingly, holding his hands out as though bloodstained – which they would be in the play itself.

'I have done the deed,' he said, and shivered. 'Granger…'

That, obviously, was not part of the play. 'What is it?' she asked, feeling her whole body tense up – was he insane?

'I… I may have to leave a little early tonight,' he said, quietly. She didn't miss the way is eyes flicked down to his left arm, and the implications of that struck her, violently and suddenly, like a slap in the face.

'You… you're going…?' she asked, unable to articulate where she thought he was going, where she knew he was going.

She didn't know how Malfoy kept his face so smooth, so expressionless, as he said, 'There's a meeting. Sometime tonight. I… I don't know exactly when.'

Stunned, she sat down on the table, the nearest solid thing that would take her weight. Well, they helped to explain why Snape had been so snappish. 'Wh… Why?' she asked.

'I don't know,' Malfoy said, turning away from her, looking at the shelves. 'The usual, I expect.'

'And what is the usual?' she asked, feeling suddenly dizzy, suddenly impossible. They could not be standing here, in a library, a peaceful, calm and quiet _library_ and be talking about… about Death Eater meetings.

He didn't reply for a minute, and when he did speak it was in a whisper, almost a hiss. 'Granger. _Don't make me say it_.'

'Killing people,' she said quietly, and he flinched.

'Don't talk about it,' he ordered her urgently, perhaps desperately. 'Just… just don't.'

Hermione opened her mouth to say something, thought better of it, and closed it again. Instead she crossed the room until she was standing beside him, slightly to the left, and tentatively reached out a hand to his shoulder. He was tense, which was only to be expected, and her hand felt incredibly small and fragile. 'Malfoy?' she tried, and then, feeling slightly stupid, 'Don't go.'

'Don't go?' he asked incredulously, but didn't look towards her. 'Are you mad?'

She paused, taking a deep breath. 'No, but _you_ are. Or at least going that way, and… look, you can just stay here and practice the play, and it'll be…'

He did turn to look at her then, one eyebrow raised. 'Do you really think it's that simple?' he asked, shrugged off her hand and stepped backwards, away from her. 'Do you think it's that easy? Just don't go and it'll all be fine?'

'No,' Hermione replied, twisting her hands together. 'But… you could get help. Dumbledore can help, he's done it before with other people…' She was thinking of Snape.

Malfoy shook his head vehemently, staring off to his left, her right. 'No,' he said. 'Granger, you don't know… you haven't seen…' He paused, shook his head. 'What he does to… to _traitors_. Not even to traitors. Just to any of his followers who annoy him, or who mess something up, or…' He took a deep breath.

'That's… that's why I suggested Dumbledore,' Hermione replied. 'He can help, he can protect you from him. And you won't have to… to…'

'To torture people. To kill them.' Draco replied, and for a moment there was a flicker of that silvery insane light in his eyes, as though he'd been poisoned with mercury. 'Dumbledore can't protect me. He's an incompetent old fool,' he said, quite matter-of-factly, with a sweeping hand gesture that seemed to push all mention of Dumbledore aside.

'He isn't,' Hermione insisted. 'He's old, perhaps, but still… a very wise man,' she said. 'And he's not incompetent, either. I trust him,' she finished lamely, shrugging.'

'Propaganda,' Draco said lightly, staring at some point a few feet off the floor. 'They tell you he's this brilliant leader, and he isn't. He's an idiot. Probably senile. Everyone thinks so.'

Hermione was stuck somewhere between anger and despair. How could he think that? She would grant that Dumbledore wasn't perfect, perhaps, but he was still a brilliant wizard, a great leader and a compassionate Headmaster, and she couldn't think of anyone greater to lead the war if she had access to the entire population of the Earth. How could Malfoy stand there and say things like that? But that was where despair came in, and despair won.

'How do you know you're not the one brainwashed, Malfoy?' she asked, quietly and sadly. 'Because from where I stand, Voldemort looks like the old fool to me, if anyone's going to be one.'

'Tactically, he's a genius,' Draco remarked, quite offhand, as though by talking about it objectively he could remove himself from the situation. 'Magically too. He has power, Granger, real power.'

'But ideologically, he's idiotic,' Hermione asserted, crossing her arms. 'He's some... some retarded prejudiced _fanatic_…'

'Ideologically? He has the right idea, Granger,' Draco said, and somehow his impassive tone made what he was saying even worse. 'Purebloods have always hated Mudbloods and Muggles. They're… accidents. Pureblood wizards are the true humans; your kind are just… aberrations. Genetic freaks, like babies born without lungs or without a heart.'

He actually did look at her then, with a perfectly blank – and frightening – expression. 'See, the difference between humans and animals is magic. No animal has magic. And Muggleborns are like… well, if a magical chimpanzee were born, you wouldn't call it human, would you? It'd be a freak, an anomaly, and…'

Her hands were balled into fists, and she was dimply aware that her breathing was harsh and loud, and her blood seemed to be so filled with fury that it was racing round her body even faster, flooding its banks until every part of her seemed filled with hot red rage.

She took a step towards him. 'You haven't a clue what a completely idiotic _bastard_ you sound like right now, do you?' she spat. 'Am I an animal? Is Harry? Is your precious Voldemort, because he's a _half-blood_ too, he's one of your freakish magical chimpanzees.'

'Granger,' Malfoy said, raising a placating hand, but she took no notice.

'I am human! And so is Harry, and so are my parents, and so are all the other Muggles and Muggleborns and half-bloods and yes, even Voldemort, as much as he doesn't deserve to be! We're all human! Being human isn't about doing magic, it's about… about intelligence and language and abstract thought, it's about creativity and culture and love and the higher emotions and… and… Do you think an animal wrote this?' she shrieked, picking his copy of Macbeth up off the table and holding it in front of her like a shield.

He took another step back, looking almost frightened. 'Granger…'

'Do you think an animal could write language like this, like poetry, and stories about murder and guilt and madness because _Shakespeare was a Muggle too_!'

She took a deep breath, the fury beginning to settle, the book in her hands beginning to shake. Malfoy looked frightened and perhaps a little upset, and his hand was firmly clamped to the inside of his left forearm.

'Granger,' he said firmly, 'I have to go.'

She closed her eyes, and didn't open them again when she felt the book being pulled out of her hands, nor when she heard his footsteps pass her and hurry away, nor when she sank to the floor, knees against her chest, and - for no reason she could pinpoint – cried.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**A/N:** I have to say, that last scene was incredibly fun to write.

Anyway, onto reviews. For the aforementioned audition, we have been instructed to 'bring an object to introduce to us.' Having discussed this with friends, parents et cetera, I've concluded that the best thing to do is to take a completely normal object and say something incredibly interesting, original and creative about it.

This is all well and good, until someone asks: _What completely normal object should I take?_ Having had no inspiration, I put the question to you, my noble and most excellent reviewers. Any and all suggestions are welcome, and now, review!


	12. Act Three, Scene Five

Macbeth: Act Three, Scene Five

**Disclaimer: **There are only so many witty ways to phrase a disclaimer, and I've used them all, so I'll simply state that I don't own either Harry Potter or Macbeth.

**Thanks for 480 reviews goes to:** thatonechic, PsYcHoJo, Jaid Ziaen, Rebecca15, ablakevh, Little Green Person, Keindra, abi-j, samhaincat, Nikki, heavengurl899, SycoCallie, Janie Granger, Poojies, Mother Zephyr, Silver Moonset, draconas, Munching Munchkin Management, darkbiscuit, Lisi, teabiscuit, citcat299, misticrystalfaerie, blueberrygirl, RedWitch1, Catelina, Kou Shun'u, Stoneage Woman, Catatonic Caudillo, Pheonix, Plaidly Lush, willowfairy, brettley, Ryu-Hitori-Lenore-Evans, JenCarpeDiem, ToOtHpIcK, Madam Midnight, I-luv-Harry-Potter-Romance, hermione3x, Noubliz, Flavagurl, Queenie Jones, Nathonea, Beloved-Stranger, Alexi Lupin, C Argentum, stargazer starluver, Greenfaerie361, yourGUN-myhead, The Black Mage, sugar n spice 522, Evan M, Flexi Lexi, KawaiiRyu, insanemaniac, Miss Morg Malfoy, Angel-Wings-Forever, Tayz, Kelly, WWJD4mE2LiVe, Storm079 (x2)

**A/N:** Thanks for everyone who suggested items/wished me luck for the audition! It was a really fun audition – lots of drama-games-type things – and I ended up taking my homework diary, because being _individual and different_ I eschewed the regular school-made ones and got my own. One with rather amusing cartoons in, which I even managed to turn into a philosophical insight. (Frankly, all of your suggestions would have been better, but I spent ages dithering and didn't decide until about 3 hours before the audition…) I didn't get in, sadly, but I did have a lot of fun and I know one of the girls who did get in, so I'll demand all the info off her anyway.

Well, with that said, onto some bad news… You might have noticed that my updates have been all over the place for a while, and I've absolutely been trying my hardest to get a chapter of both fics up each and every week, but – as my beta told me when I started Macbeth, I'm really not able to keep up with school and two fics per week.

Don't worry, I'm not going to stop one! I am, however, going to **change the schedule** of updates so I actually have time to breathe, and since I'm writing these for you, I'm letting you choose the new one. Choose from:

1. Macbeth once every two weeks, Fallen every week.

2. Fallen once every two weeks, Macbeth every week

3. Fallen every two weeks, Macbeth every two weeks (in other words, they alternate: one week Fallen, one week Macbeth, the next Fallen.)

Tell me which one you'd prefer in your review! And of course, this will change again once Macbeth's over. I'm really sorry about this, but there's no other way for me to balance writing and work.

With that said, onto the chapter. Enjoy!

* * *

_Granger,_

_The next rehearsal of Act Two, Scene Two is on Wednesday, and we need to have practiced it before then. Are you free on Tuesday at eight o'clock?_

_Yours, Draco Malfoy._

* * *

_Malfoy,_

_You know full well why I've been avoiding you. No, I won't meet you on Tuesday._

_-Hermione_

* * *

_Granger, you were the one who pointed out that we had to keep practicing the last time we fought. I have as little desire to meet you as you do to meet me, but unfortunately bad fortune has seen fit to force us together to practice this accursed play, as I would rather not look like an idiot on the night of the performance, and I suspect you wouldn't either._

_I will not apologise for saying what I did. I do, however, feel it would be prudent not to discuss our respective positions on the subject – at least until after the play is over – so that we may continue some pretence of civility._

_Yours, Draco Malfoy._

* * *

_Fine. Tuesday at eight._

_-Hermione_

* * *

That was how Hermione found herself making her way to their usual place in the library at eight o'clock on Tuesday evening, clutching her copy of the script tightly on one hand. She'd spent the past few days deliberating – endlessly – the question of whether she should tell someone, but after the Potions lesson the point was rather moot. 

Snape already knew, which meant that either Dumbledore had been told – and was taking appropriate response; making it unnecessary for her to tell anyone – or that Snape hadn't told Dumbledore for some good reason, in which case she shouldn't tell Dumbledore anyway.

That ruled out telling the teachers, and though she'd considered telling Harry and Ron, she hadn't. Some part of her felt they wouldn't understand; perhaps because she didn't understand either. Malfoy was a contradiction; A Death Eater who could argue passionately and firmly that Muggles and Muggleborns – she shuddered at the memory – were nothing more than animals, yet went frighteningly insane with what could only be guilt when he killed them. Tortured and killed, and she didn't let herself consider that.

That was a point – did Dumbledore know Malfoy was guilty, was going half-mad? Should she tell him? Then again, Hermione doubted very much that Draco could properly hide what he felt when… when at a Death Eater meeting, so surely Snape would know, and would have told Dumbledore… if he'd told Dumbledore of course, that was…

'Granger,' came Malfoy's cool voice, completely civil, and Hermione realised she'd arrived at their usual enclave without realising it.

'Malfoy,' she replied, dipping her head slightly without taking her eyes off him, and didn't sit down. Malfoy was sitting with his copy of the play open in front of him, pale fingers brushing at one edge as though he'd just been about to turn the page when she walked in.

He casually picked the book up and began flicking through, looking for the right place. 'Shall we begin?'

'I'm _not_ an animal.'

Hermione was probably more surprised than Malfoy at that sudden statement; she'd come here with the intention of keeping quiet, civil and saying absolutely nothing that wasn't to do with the play. Malfoy lowered his book a little, looking at her over the top of it with grey, strangely glittering eyes.

'I thought we agreed not to talk about that?'

'No,' Hermione replied. 'No. You suggested we shouldn't. I… I never said anything.' And, feeling a little surer of herself, 'And I think I do want to talk about it.'

'No,' was Draco's reply, flat and sharp. 'It's your line.'

Hermione opened her script to the right place in silence, took a breath, looked up at Draco and snapped. 'I can't,' she said.

'Can't what?'

'Can't do _this_ with someone who thinks I'm an animal,' she replied, flinging the script upon the table. Hermione took a deep breath, trying to force away the beginnings of righteous anger deep inside her. She had to stay _calm_. Anger would be no benefit.

'This is neither the time nor the place to talk about this, Granger,' Malfoy said shortly, picking up his copy of the play. 'This is the time to practice Macbeth. Not to have debates about humans and animals. It's _your line_, Granger.'

Hermione knew, logically, that she ought to stop arguing her point, act civilised and begin the practice. That was the sensible thing to do, but unfortunately, the rest of her mind didn't seem to want to be sensible.

'How do you define humanity, then?' she asked. 'What does being 'human' mean?'

'Granger…' Malfoy began, glancing at her over the top of his book, his face sharp and cold with annoyance. Their eyes met for a moment, one that seemed to last far longer than it actually did, and then Malfoy's eyes flicked away, and he sighed.

'Fine,' he said, sounding very much like a sulky toddler, and then in a tone that sounded very much as though he were reciting this from memory, began. 'Humans are distinguished from lower life forms by magical ability, language, abstract thought, creativity… of course, the physical shape of a human, discounting Transfigurations or Animagus abilities. Also by not possessing traits such as Muggle, non-human ancestry, vampirism, lycanthropy…'

'Werewolves are humans!' Hermione cut in. 'What about Professor Lupin?'

Malfoy sighed, as though explaining something to a particularly difficult child. 'I'm not saying there's anything _wrong_ with animals,' he said patiently. 'Animals can be intelligent, rational… look at phoenixes, for example. They can be smarter than some humans. That doesn't make them human, though.'

'So being human means being a Pureblood?'

He shrugged. 'Basically, yes. I assume you'd disagree with me, though,' He looked completely calm and unruffled as he said, 'In the end, it's all a matter of opinion.'

And Hermione couldn't say anything to that, because it _was_ a matter of opinion. She could find the dictionary definition of human, and Malfoy would simply say that the dictionary's writer had the wrong opinion, and… and what could you say? You couldn't prove the meaning of a word. If a group of people decided that the word 'garden' meant ' a dragon's scale', then you couldn't prove them wrong, because to them it _did_ mean a dragon's scale. It was just minority opinion versus minority opinion, and you couldn't say one was wrong and one was right.

Which left only one line of reasoning open, really.

'So if Muggles and Mudbloods aren't _human_,' she said, speaking slowly to give her words greater impact, 'why is being a Death Eater driving you insane?'

He flinched, very visibly, and curled one pale hand into a fist, looking away from her. 'Granger…' he began, his tone warning.

'I just want an answer to the question, Malfoy,' she carried on. 'Why? You could kill other animals without regret. I've _seen_ you do it in Potions. And you tried to get Buckbeak executed in third year, and you didn't care then, so why do you care about killing these other _animals_?'

'_Granger_,' he repeated, and this time there was a note of desperation in his voice. His breathing was too quick, too shallow.

'Just answer the question,' she repeated, half-consciously moving, walking round the table, closing on him like a predator on its prey. 'Muggles are animals, by _your_ logic. Killing animals… well, you might not like it, but it certainly wouldn't drive you insane. So why is killing Muggles making you go insane?'

He didn't respond, his eyes tightly shut as though trying to block out what she was saying. She continued.

'Perhaps Muggles aren't animals after all? Perhaps they're _humans_, just like you, just like me, perhaps that's why you're going mad from… from killing them, and _torturing_ them until they scream and beg and… and whatever _else_ you do to them, and…'

'Do you _want_ me to go insane, Granger?' Draco cut in suddenly, voice low and fierce and, just a little, under the fury, shaking. _He_ was shaking too, Hermione saw suddenly, and pale, and…

Anger has a very disconcerting way of vanishing and leaving an oddly hollow place inside you instead. Deflated, Hermione sat down in the chair beside Malfoy. He wasn't looking at her now, although he had looked at her when he spoke with his grey eyes full of anger, of fear. He was staring at his hands now, eyes widening in horror, and oh, _no_, he was going to start hallucinating blood again…

She reached out and grabbed hold of his hands without thinking, pulling them away from his eyes, which seemed to snap him back to reality a bit – though he was still pale and horrified and his hands felt like ice. 'No,' she said, in response to his question. 'No, I don't want you to go insane.

He stared at her blankly, and somehow – how could you be so utterly furious with someone one minute and so worried for them the next? He looked as though, just over her shoulder, the world was ending and the ground was being swallowed by rivers of blood and the Horsemen of the Apocalypse were riding forth, charging through the middle of the bookshelves, spreading war and pestilence and famine and death and…

And she didn't know what he was seeing in his head, really, because he _wasn't_ seeing the library.

'Malfoy?' she said, firmly, with only the slightest tremor of doubt in her voice. 'Malfoy? Snap out of it. Come on. It's…' It wasn't okay, which was what she was about to say. 'There's no… no Death Eaters here. No killing. Come on, snap out of it.' She realised she still had his hands in hers, and experimentally gave them a squeeze.

When he did speak, it made her jump. 'One of them looked like you,' he said, his voice half a whisper. 'Same hair. I didn't see her eyes. Her mouth was just like yours, though. I think.' He turned his face towards her again, pulled one hand out of her grasp and raised it to her mouth, tugging gently on her chin. 'Open. Like you're screaming.'

Wordlessly – she didn't know quite what else she could do – she complied, and he looked at her with his head on one side, frowning. The pupils of his eyes were wide, so the iris was just a thin ring of mercury separating black from white.

'Like you. Yes.' He said, and took his hand away from her chin. 'And she… and she…'

'Malfoy,' Hermione cut in, finding her mouth suddenly dry. 'Malfoy, listen. Try… try and snap out of it, don't think about it…'

'These deeds must not be thought after these ways; so, it will make us mad,' Malfoy muttered, glancing to one side. 'She looked like you, but she wasn't you, because you're here, aren't you? I thought she was you, at first,' he said, and shuddered.

'It wasn't,' Hermione said, not having a clue what to say but somehow feeling obliged to say something. 'I'm here.'

Malfoy's eyes fixed on her again, with a relentless, wide-eyed stare that didn't seem to be taking in anything that it looked at. 'And then they hurt her. We hurt her. In a circle with her in the middle, like a children's game, did you ever play them? _Ring a ring of rosies, we all fall down_. Except we didn't. She did, though.' He blinked, and it was only when he did that Hermione realised he hadn't been blinking.

She took a deep breath, but before she could say anything he was talking again. 'And then… and then…' He gulped in air, shook his head fiercely. 'Thou canst not say I did it: never shake thy gory locks at me.' He really did look at her then; raised his free hand to her hair and touched it, hesitatingly, as though he expected it to attack him. 'You couldn't even recognise… by the time they were done. _We_ were done. They made me take a turn, too.' He said this last in a whisper, so quiet she barely heard it, then closed his eyes, shaking, and was silent.

Minutes passed like this, Malfoy with the very tips of his fingers tangled in her hair and the other hand still loosely in her grasp, close enough for Hermione to see every flicker and every impossible stillness in his face. After five minutes of silence, she dared to speak.

'Malfoy?'

His eyes opened, and he saw her face, shuddering again, then drew back, pulling his had out of hers and out of her hair. 'I'm fine,' he said, quietly but firmly, and picked up his copy of the play with one quivering hand. 'We should start.'

'I don't think you're in any fit state to practice yet,' Hermione said firmly, reaching to take hold of his book, but he wouldn't let go.

'Let's start,' he repeated.

'Not until you're okay,' Hermione said firmly. 'And you aren't, no matter how much you say you are. Especially not for this scene, I don't want you going… like that… again.'

He raised an eyebrow quizzically at her. 'Coming from the one who set me off just then?'

Hermione felt her cheeks flush. 'I was angry,' she said, as if that excused anything. 'If it helps, I apologise. I… I didn't mean to make you go… Well, perhaps I did, but I was angry and I wasn't thinking straight. I'm sorry.' She was somewhat surprised to find that she meant it.

He waved a hand, though whether this was acceptance or refusal she didn't know. He was staring at his left sleeve. 'She didn't stop screaming,' he said, almost nostalgically, as though it was something he'd dreamt.

'Don't think about it,' Hermione ordered him firmly. 'Think about something else.'

He laughed, the sound almost bitter, and slumped further in his seat, looking straight ahead and not at her. 'How? You can't forget when every time you close your eyes… when you can always hear…' He closed his eyes for a moment, opened them. 'Forget it. I'm fine.'

'No, you aren't,' Hermione replied, sighing, then eyes him thoughtfully. 'You can tell me, you know. If there's anything you… need to, I mean…'

He simply shook his head in reply; Hermione supposed that Malfoys didn't talk about such things. 'Thank you for the offer, but no. I'm fine, and we should get on with the play,' he said firmly, picking up his copy. 'No excuses. I'm _fine_, Granger. Come on, we should stand up and do it properly.' He got up, waiting for Hermione to do the same so that he could get out from behind the table.

Hermione opened her mouth to argue, found that she couldn't, and closed it again. Quietly, she picked up her copy of the script and moved into the patch of open space they used to practice in, assumed her starting position, and began to read.

* * *

_The wards at Hogwarts appear to be unique to the school; they have never been found elsewhere, and though many witches and wizards have attempted to replicate them, no attempts have ever been successful._

_The basic function of a ward is to protect an area – commonly a building and its grounds – from attack, unlawful entry, et cetera. Normal wards usually function specifying certain individuals, or a group of people definable by a single characteristic, and preventing them from entering the warded area. The wards on Diagon Alley, for example, prevent all Muggles from entering, while old wizarding houses commonly have areas warded to forbid entry to all but family members._

Hermione firmly squashed the sudden whisper at the back of her mind that wondered if Malfoy's house had such areas, and if so, what happened in them. Dark Arts, Muggle tortures…

No, she wasn't meant to be thinking about that. The rehearsal had gone fine once they'd started it; he hadn't said a word apart from his lines, and she'd been anxiously watching him – still pale and shaking slightly – for impending insanity, or anger, or…

Forcibly, Hermione turned her attention back to Hogwarts, A History. When she wanted to distract her thoughts, she read; and however much Harry and Ron teased her, she liked this book. It reminded her of finding out she was a witch, of discovering that magic was real and that there was a whole new world expanding before her eyes, full of spells and hexes, new subjects to learn, new teachers, new ways of thinking. New friends.

_The Hogwarts wards are unique in their flexibility in this regard. One ward can be specified to keep out only one person or group, and if it is necessary to keep multiple people or groups out of the area, multiple wards must be used. At Hogwarts, however, there is only one ward – an incredibly complex, intricate and detailed ward that no one has ever managed to break. This single ward is capable of specifying multiple people or groups and preventing their entry._

_This has incredible effects on security. For example, imagine that there is a group of people – let us take left-handed people as an example – who want to destroy an area. A ward would be set up to prevent their entry. But if there were one left-handed person, a spy, for example, who needed to enter the area, the ward against all left-handers would need to be removed and replaced after their departure, leaving the area vulnerable to attack._

_The Hogwarts wards, however, can deal with multiple situations at once, and allow in a specified left-hander while preventing the entry of all other left-handers. This makes them far more secure than any other ward, and when you apply this idea to truly dangers groups such as followers of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, the benefits of this ward can be clearly seen._

Which brought her mind round to Malfoy again. Dangerous groups, such as followers of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named… if it weren't for the versatile nature of the Hogwarts wards, Malfoy wouldn't be able to enter, and then where would he be? At home, probably, with his father, where he'd probably be forced to learn and practice Dark Arts all day, and that would definitely drive him mad…

Focus on the _book_.

_Perhaps more astonishingly, the wards can identify members of the school – Hogwarts students and professors – and act to protect them. This process has been studied in depth, and current theories propose that Hogwarts and its grounds contains miniscule magical particles that are absorbed into the blood of those who live there. These particles can last for up to six months after leaving the school, though they can be instantaneously removed by a potion – as in the case of a 14th century Headmaster, who was thrown out of the school for numerous Dark Arts scandals (for more information on this event and the potion used, see_ The Biography of Cain Mortensen _by Louise Marley.) It is believed that these magical particles enable the school to recognise its own and aid them when necessary. The wards will allow in anyone with these particles in their blood, no matter if they are part of a forbidden group._

Which was, of course, why Malfoy could still come here.

Was everything going to remind her of Malfoy tonight? Most probably, yes. She couldn't stop thinking – even when she was concentrating on the book – about how cold his hands had been, how terrified he'd looked with fingers lightly twisted in her hair. How he'd been shaking at the memories. What had he seen? What had he done?

He was a murderer, yes, and a torturer, and a follower of Voldemort, and he said that Muggles and Muggleborns were animals. But he was going insane because of it, and… and didn't that mean there must be some spark of conscience in him, somewhere?

Hermione turned her attention back to the book firmly. This wasn't getting her anywhere, just making her more worried and confused, but what could she do? Reading was the only thing that could distract her, really, and even that wasn't working tonight. Still, she tried it, and when Ron returned from a solitary practice of Quidditch and Harry and Ginny came back from practices, she tried talking to them instead.

She never quite managed to get Malfoy out of her mind, though.

* * *

**A/N:** 'Louise Marley' is the name of my ex-Latin teacher/Philosophy club teacher. We were meant to have a Philosophy Club lunch-out last Tuesday, but they scheduled Christmas Lunch on that day and everyone but me and Ms Marley either went to school lunch or was off sick. (I, being an incredibly fussy eater, abhor school Christmas Lunches. Everyone else seems to adore them.) While led to me eating lunch, alone, with a Latin teacher. What did I end up doing? Telling her about this fic. And talking about books. 

Does anyone else find it extremely embarrassing explaining to someone not in HP circles about the Draco/Hermione ship? Other ships? You can count that as this week's question, along with the voting on my new schedule! Review!


	13. Act Four, Scene One

Macbeth: Act Four, Scene One

**Disclaimer: **I love Harry Potter. According to Plato, 'love' is 'the desire to possess something, and to go on possessing it eternally.' Therefore, I desire to eternally possess Harry Potter, and by implication, I don't currently eternally possess him at all. JK Rowling does. (This one's for you, Ros, and yes, I know I decidedly massacred Plato. Sorry.)

**Thanks for 543 reviews goes to:** yourGUN-myhead, samhaincat, Cassandra Raven, aicila, Jaid Ziaen, HGluv, mbrok, Go10, LittleGreenPerson, Nathonea, KawaiiRyu, Rebecca15, Madam Midnight, Janie Granger, PsYcHoJo, fightclub16, jules37, PhAnToM-ChiK, draconas, FalconWing, RedWitch1, citcat299, mmm, Flexi Lexi, KrystyWroth, angela, Keindra, Beboots, Avelynn Tame, dand-e-lion, ToOtHpIcK, Silvestria, Francinator, abi-j, willowfairy, Genevieve Jones, Silver Moonset, Periannath, Bella, Sever13, Best Deception, Nikki, Poojies, Lyra Silvertongue2, stargazer starluver, Stoneage Woman, ablakevh, Mashiara Sedai, Plaidly Lush, La Suede, Pheonix, luckdragon, Vindicated, Tayz, Lisi, Opalfire, sugar n spice522, ewagurl4eva, Flavagurl, Sam8, SugarQuillCandy, CrystalDragonfly, DragonSpirit7037.

**A/N:** Happy New Year! I hope everyone had an excellent 2004, and will continue to have an excellent 2005.

For my New Year's celebration, I fulfilled my filial duty by introducing my 60-year-old father to Finding Nemo, which is apparently a headache-curer and general energiser, as it so filled me with energy that I spent the rest of the evening writing the final scene of this story. By candlelight, because occasionally I get an urge to be atmospheric.

I'm the same with telling people about fanfiction in general. I didn't even know any of by friends were fanfictioners until one of them mentioned it, at which my mouth fell wide open. I, also, cannot tell anyone about my fanfic-writing, as I tend to go bright red. Not even my parents know! I can tell people who already know about fanfiction and D/Hr, but no one else.

In other news, I'm glad to announce that the **alternating** updates won, so you get one chapter of Macbeth a fortnight and one chapter of Fallen a fortnight. **Updates of both will move to Friday nights.** Thank you so much to everyone who voted, especially those who chose alternating in order to give me a break. Writing really is about communication between a writer and a reader through the medium of the story, and sometimes it's very easy for readers to forget that the writer is a human being, or for the writer to see the readers as some ravenous story-eating monster that must be kept fed. I'm incredibly glad and grateful that this isn't happening here, and I couldn't ask for a better group of readers. I love you all. Really.

Anyway, without further ado about nothing, onto the fic. Enjoy!

* * *

'Ere the bat hath flown his cloister'd flight; ere to black Hecate's summons the shard-borne beetle with his drowsy hums hath rung night's yawning peal, there shall be done…' Malfoy paused, here, glancing at her sideways, the slightly manic smile she knew all too well from reality flitting across his face, 'a deed of dreadful note.' 

Hermione let his eerie proclamation hang in the air for a second, stepping forward and reaching out to touch him, then freezing as if afraid before letting her arm fall away. Then she asked, her voice firm though a little nervous, 'What's to be done?'

Malfoy shook himself and turned towards her, smiling warmly. 'Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck, till thou applaud the deed,' he told her, brushing the lightest of kisses across her forehead. His lips were soft and cold. He pulled away, turning, to deliver the rest of his speech. 'Come, seeling night, scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day…' he began.

Hermione couldn't help but shudder, and was incredibly relieved that it could be passed off as acting, even if they hadn't planned for it. She was always worried that something would set Malfoy off in the middle of rehearsals, like Banquo's ghost set Macbeth off in the middle of his feast – they'd practiced that one last Monday – and betray his insanity to the directors. Or that something about the way the smiled, the way he looked too perfectly, glitteringly mad would make her snap, and she'd betray him.

Hermione wondered, for a moment, if Lady Macbeth would have felt the same way.

'So, prithee,' Malfoy concluded, holding out his hand to her, pausing with his head on one side and saying, almost gently, 'go with me.'

She took his hand and followed him off the stage, or rather to the edge of the group of desks that made their temporary stage.

'You aren't going to make us go through it again, are you?' moaned Adrian before anyone else could talk, earning himself a glare from Megan.

'Actually, I thought one more run through-' she began, coldly, but was interrupted by Stan.

'Megan, dearest, you know that if there is one thing in the world I adore, it is Macbeth,' he said earnestly. 'Were the school on fire, it would be the first thing I rescued, were I attacked by dangerous robbers looking to steal it, I would defend it with my life, were I…'

'Brevity is the soul of wit, Polonius,' Ruth cut in, smiling in amusement, earning a soft laugh from Olivia and a puzzled look from Adrian. Stan looked abashed.

'Alright, alright. To get to what I was saying, then; well, I can see Adrian's point. I'm getting utterly tired of it myself, to be honest. I mean, we had that huge full-cast meeting this morning about production dates and rehearsals and all the rest…'

'And the costume meeting,' Ruth offered. 'And Olivia and I spent lunchtime looking up lighting spells.'

'And I'm sure Hermione and Draco are just as tired as we are,' Stan finished, glancing up at the stage. Hermione wasn't particularly tired, but Draco gave a firm nod of agreement before she could say anything, and gave her hand a tight squeeze before letting go of it. He must have been holding it ever since the scene ended, though she hadn't noticed.

'So, in short,' Adrian finished, 'let us out this accursed nightmare of a rehearsal. Please,' he added, almost as an afterthought.

Megan sighed and started gathering her paperwork together. 'I guess I can't argue,' she said. 'I'll let you two know when we want you next. Keep practicing, both of you; we only have a month until the first performance.' That was one of the things they'd decided; they were going to perform the play on the last three nights of term, one show a night. There had been far more interest in it than they'd expected.

Draco nodded again and headed for the door, leaving right behind the cluster of directors; all of whom but Megan had bolted as soon as she'd finished speaking. Hermione clambered down carefully – she was always afraid she'd fall – and picked up her bag, leaving as Megan started packing sheets of parchment away.

She hadn't taken more than three steps when someone grabbed her wrist.

'Granger.'

Her name was spoken with complete neutrality: emotionally neutral, neither too loud nor too quiet, not asking anything or telling anything. A simple statement, and she didn't need to turn around to recognise the speaker.

'Malfoy,' she acknowledged. He dropped her hand gently, and she did turn to face him. He was leaning against the wall, one arm across his chest, simply watching her in an elegant way that was somehow completely unnerving. 'Did you want something?' she asked.

'Perhaps,' he said, half-shrugging one shoulder. 'We need to decide when we're rehearsing next.'

Megan chose that moment to bustle out of the door, startling Hermione but not fazing Malfoy in the slightest; he simply gave her a cordial smile and a nod. She returned the smile and headed off in the direction of the Gryffindor Common Room.

'Should we go somewhere more private?' he asked coolly, which immediately raised questions in Hermione's mind. There was no need to go somewhere private simply to set a rehearsal time: that meant he wanted something else. Suppressing a raised eyebrow and a question, she simply nodded.

Malfoy's eyes roved the corridor for a moment, before landing on a door about halfway down. 'In here?' he suggested, strolling over to it casually and putting a slender, graceful hand on the door handle. 'Granger?'

'What? Oh. Yes, in there.'

The room turned out to be a storeroom for Muggle Studies, and not a well organised one at that. Narrow, winding paths led through wobbling piles of various Muggle contraptions; televisions and gramophones, dusty piles of records that could only play by magical means at Hogwarts, a collection of rather battered computers, boxes of empty plastic bottles and electric plugs, non-moving photographs, ballpoint pens and pads of perfectly ordinary paper. Posters around the walls depicted the workings of the printing press, the insides of a computer and eighteenth-century cotton mills, while a huge row of sagging bookcases held a dog-eared collection of textbooks, Muggle literature, and various other unidentifiable things. A wilting and rather dusty spider plant completed the room.

Malfoy coughed, presumably from the dust, and perched rather delicately on the cleanest object he could find, which happened to be the television. He surveyed the room, looking away from her, and she was just about to tell him that televisions generally weren't used for sitting on when he spoke.

'There's a meeting tonight.'

It took her a few seconds to work out that he didn't mean the play. 'A… you-know-what meeting?'

'Death Eaters? Yes.' She couldn't see his face, and his voice was so impossibly neutral that she couldn't pick anything up from that, either. He would have showed more emotion talking about one of Professor Binns' History of Magic lectures. Boredom was, after all, an emotion.

Why was he telling her this? She leant to one side in an attempt to see his expression, but failed to see anything other then a strand of blond hair brushing against his cheek; he swept it away. And continued.

'It's too soon. He _never_ holds them this close together.' And this time there was a hint of something just showing through a crack in his voice; something like fear. His shoulders were very tight, very tense, and she felt an instinctive desire to reach out and _touch_ them.

'Do you… do you think something's going to happen?' she asked, as much to keep the conversation going as anything. If it could be _called_ a conversation.

He snorted. 'No, Granger, we're going to sit around in a circle, drinking Firewhisky and sharing amusing but incredibly lewd anecdotes,' he snapped, and finally turned his head to face her, wearing an expression of irritation. 'Of _course_ something's going to happen.'

Hermione bit her lip, hard, and tried to figure out what to say. Malfoy was… not shaking, exactly; if he were anyone other than Malfoy he would be shaking, but _Malfoy_ wouldn't. Not while he was sane, anyway. Which he mightn't be for much longer.

Which was why she had to think carefully about what to say.

'Do you think…' she began, licking her suddenly-dry lips, 'would it be a good idea for you to… to go to Dumbledore? He could-'

'Is that your answer to everything?' Malfoy cut in, snapping at her. 'Go to Dumbledore? I thought you were meant to be smart, Granger…' His tone was a mixture of contempt and disappointment; he turned away, staring vaguely in the direction of a large map of the London Underground that was hanging at an angle on one wall.

'Malfoy…' Hermione started, her tone pleading, and when this had no effect she tried, '_Draco_. Listen to me, please. Dumbledore can help, he's possibly the only person who can do anything right now…'

'And what gives you the idea that he'll want to?' Malfoy asked, tilting his chin upwards; even from behind he looked defiant. Hermione found herself reaching out an arm towards his shoulder, then stopped herself.

'He's helped people before,' she said softly, thinking of Snape but not daring to say it. 'In Voldemort's last rise, people who joined _him_ but realised they were making a mistake; people who backed out… he helped them. And he can help you. And… and he _will_, Malfoy, I really think he will.'

Had Snape been like Malfoy? She didn't know. She certainly couldn't picture Snape as Malfoy was now: sitting on top of a television set in a dusty Muggle Studies storeroom – still managing to look impeccable, of course – with his back to someone desperately trying to persuade him to seek help from Albus Dumbledore. Though that was probably because she couldn't imagine looking quite as impossibly beautiful as Malfoy did.

He scoffed. 'What reason does he have to help me? What proof does he have that I'm not just…' he waved a hand in a vague gesture – 'a spy or something, trying to get his trust and then betray him in deepest consequence – as the _instruments of darkness_ so often do? He finished, laughing a little, bitterly. Quoting again, or at least making reference to the play.

'You aren't an instrument of darkness,' Hermione said firmly, and this time she really did put her hand on his shoulder, which felt very tense and very firm and very warm; she hadn't expected that. 'You're… you're a human. Someone who made a mistake and did the wrong thing and… and someone who feels guilty about hurting other people. Don't you think Dumbledore will see that?'

'No,' he answered flatly. 'He'll see the son of one of the Dark Lord's greatest followers asking for help, with nothing to offer and no proof that he is what he says he is, and a massive threat to his side of the war. He won't help me, and he couldn't if he wanted to.'

'He _can_. He _has_,' Hermione said desperately, perching on a large and mysterious cardboard box beside Malfoy's television, so she was sitting about an inch below his height. Her hand was still on his shoulder; he hadn't removed it. 'I told you, he's helped people in Voldemort's past rise…'

'Not a _Malfoy_, though,' he cut in sharply, twisting to look at her over his shoulder. 'Not someone from a family of Dark wizards who've taken every opportunity to massacre Muggles they can get…'

She sighed. 'No, not a Malfoy,' she agreed. 'But someone in your position, all the same…'

'Who probably brought vast an ample reasons to believe him, like a list of all the Dark Lord's planned attacks which could be ticked off as he went through, or a rescued prisoner of war, or something. I have nothing. Nothing but my word, and yours, and do you really think he'll believe…'

'I think it's worth trying,' Hermione replied firmly, 'and I think you should have more faith in him...'

'I think you should pay more attention to reality,' Malfoy muttered, turning his head away, and Hermione didn't have an answer. Because, well, what proof did they have?

'Is there any other option?' she asked him. 'Any other way out of it?'

Malfoy shook his head. 'No. No one gets out of being a Death Eater. Lifetime service. Even if Dumbledore did give me protection, I'd always be watching over my shoulder. Waiting. The Dark Lord does _not_ let his followers leave. It's…'

'It's not hopeless,' Hermione whispered, anticipating what he was going to say, and – quite tentatively, and seemingly without any input from her conscious mind – stroking her hand gently across Malfoy's back, trying to soothe him. 'There's always hope.'

'Spoken like a true Gryffindor. Always hope, messy glory and recklessness,' Malfoy retorted, but his heart didn't seem in it. He sighed a little, and she gave his shoulder a light squeeze, leaving her hand resting there. Very slowly – so slowly she barely noticed it – his shoulders relaxed.

They might have stayed like that for ten minutes - Hermione wasn't really paying attention to time, so it could have been five or it could have been fifteen – just sitting there, with her hand on his shoulder and neither of them able to see the other's expression. His skin was warm underneath the smooth cotton of his robes, and Hermione half-imagined she could feel the faint pulse of his heartbeat.

'I'd better go,' he said eventually, quietly. 'I have to… to get ready…'

'Of course,' she whispered, removing her hand and dropping it to her lap. He stood, appeared to pause for a moment, and strode to the door, but before he could open it Hermione found herself speaking. 'Is there no way you can avoid it? Stay behind?'

'No,' Malfoy said, very softly. 'There isn't.' And he was gone, leaving Hermione alone in a dusty room to think over everything he'd just said.

* * *

'And then she grabbed the Quaffle again, yeah, and started coming at me from the left, and I was still way over on the right side of the goal from the last shot,' Ron said, face flushed with the excitement of the Quidditch practice. 

Hermione nodded, trying to pay half her attention to Ron and half to her Arithmancy homework. 'What did you do?' she asked.

'Shot off after it, though I didn't think I had a chance of getting it,' he said, and beamed proudly, 'but I did. I just knocked it – right with the tip of my little finger,' he said, raising the digit in question, 'and it went flying straight into one of the Bludgers that was about to hit Harry. That bit was a fluke, I guess… but everyone said it was an amazing save, didn't they, Harry?'

Harry had crumpled beside him on the sofa after coming in from Quidditch practices and hadn't said a word for the past five minutes. When he didn't respond to Ron's question, Ron turned towards him, frowning. 'Harry? Oy, _Harry_? I don't believe it…'

Hermione glanced up from her Arithmancy to see Harry snuggled into the corner of the sofa, still in his Quidditch robes, eyes closed and fast asleep. Ron lent over and gave his arm a gentle shake. 'Harry, wake up…'

'Oh, let him sleep, Ron,' Hermione chided. 'He looks exhausted.' She scribbled something down on her parchment, which caused her quill to start turning slowly orange. She frowned at it. 'That wasn't meant to happen…'

'Sorry,' Ron said, half for distracting her and half for trying to wake Harry, while Hermione glared fiercely at her sum in an attempt to figure out where she'd gone wrong. She made a small but deliberate alteration, and her quill faded back to white again. Nodding in satisfaction, she continued.

'I was wondering, though…' she said, and bit her lip, looking up from the parchment. 'How's he been sleeping?'

'Better than he was in summer,' Ron replied with a half-shrug. 'Though you can tell that by looking at him. He's fine, Hermione, stop worrying.'

Hermione focussed on her Arithmancy. 'I guess you're right,' she said, with a quick glance up at Harry. 'He definitely looks peaceful.'

'He's fine,' Ron repeated, and Hermione went back to her homework. What she didn't see was the faint frown which passed over Harry's face, or the way the edges of his eyes screwed up as his scar started to redden.

* * *

_'Morsmordre Insigne.'_

_The voice that spoke it was cold, oddly high, and Harry shivered in his sleep as an icy wave of something like pleasure flowed through him. There was a brief gasp, then silence. Then colour started to seep out of the darkness, and he could see._

_A ring of black cloaked and masked figures stood in the middle of some deserted patch of land. There was no moon, and the stars were faint; the scene was illuminated only by balls of pale, silvery light that hung heavily in the air, drifting at random around the scene, illuminating everything in impossibly sharp detail. In the centre of the ring stood Voldemort, snakelike features cast into a vivid mixture of light and shadow, which only served to make him appear even more terrifying, more inhuman. Before him a Death Eater was kneeling, cloaked and masked like the rest, one arm outreached. The left one, and Voldemort's pale fingertip was pressed against a vividly black Dark Mark._

_An initiation? A new recruit?_

_Voldemort released the arm and spoke, his voice sending shivers down Harry's spine. 'You may rise,' he said, and the figure did so. 'Take your place among my loyal followers.'_

'_Thank you, my lord,' the figure replied, and Harry was startled to hear that the voice was female. He hadn't expected that, somehow._

_The woman moved backwards into the circle, and Voldemort smiled, a pale, twisted mockery of a smile. 'I am pleased,' he began, and a general murmur ran around the circle. 'We have achieved much lately, have we not? The wizarding world cowers in fear of our next attack. The cowardly Minister and his Aurors are weak, easy to defeat. Unprepared.' Harry realised that Voldemort was carefully avoiding something on the ground, and tried to see what it was; the lights stayed mostly around chest height and left the ground in shadow._

'_We have had many fine victories, have we not? So many Mudbloods and Muggles dead, and each one, of course, brings us closer to our goal, whether they be key targets for murder…' His face twisted into his mockery of a smile once more, 'Or simple abominations upon the earth which we have exterminated like the vermin they are.' There was a mutter of agreement from the ranks; Harry suspected they would have cheered, if they weren't afraid of angering their leader._

_Voldemort moved on; one of the lights finally dipped down low, and Harry's stomach twisted as he finally saw what the thing on the ground was that Voldemort had walked round. A woman's corpse, the light shining off the bloodstains that streaked the skin. Her face was still twisted in agony from… from whatever they'd done to her: Harry didn't want to think._

'_And in the near future, my faithful followers, we shall have even more to celebrate. Plans are even now being set in motion…' Voldemort let the sentence trail off with a high, cold laugh. 'But that is the future, is it not? I find myself rather more concerned with the present.' He folded his arms behind his back, circling the Death Eaters in a manner that could only be described as predatory._

'_We have had successes, of course, but,' he sighed, 'there were failures too. Such as the attack we had planned on that abhorrent Mudblood settlement near London. Do you remember? When the Aurors, and Dumbledore's detestable Order, were there lying in wait for us? I admit myself incredibly curious as to how they knew in advance.' He stopped short, addressed the Death Eater nearest to him. 'Do you know?'_

_The trembling figure dropped to its knees, raising its hands in protest. 'My Lord…' came the voice, 'I… I have no idea how…'_

'_Of course you have no idea,' replied Voldemort, in some sickening perversion of gentleness. 'You had nothing to do with it.' He continued on, and the figure hastily got to its feet as soon as he realised that his neck wasn't on the line. 'It seems to me, my friends, that we have a spy in our midst.'_

_A sudden horrible realisation sent Harry's senses reeling. Snape. That was who Voldemort meant, the spy, the person who had alerted the Order…_

_Voldemort paced on through the circle, looking each Death Eater in the eye through the holes in their mask. 'I wonder who it could be…' he said, thoughtfully, moving from Death Eater to Death Eater. And stopped._

'_Severus,' he said, into the sudden terrible silence._

_The cloaked figure who must be Snape dropped to his knees, head bowed, 'My Lord, I would never…'_

'_Silence.' Voldemort's order was cold and pitiless, and he let it hang in the air for several seconds before speaking again. 'Severus,' he continued at last. 'You really should have been more careful.'_

'_My Lord,' Snape began again, tentatively, 'I have done nothing but serve you, loyally and faithfully, my Lord, I swear it…'_

'_You should have been far more careful,' Voldemort said, removing a piece of parchment from his robe and unfolding it. 'Leaving incriminating documentation such as this lying around in the bottom of a concealed, heavily warded and hexed box, where anyone who broke into your home could find it…'_

'_My Lord, I would never betray you,' Snape said, firmly and with a desperate sincerity to his voice that almost had Harry believing him. 'I have no idea what the parchment you're holding is, my Lord, I suspect it is an attempt to trick you into thinking that I would betray you. You know, my Lord, that I have many enemies…'_

'_I believe I ordered you to be silent?' Voldemort remarked, at which Snape did fall silent, head almost touching the ground, waiting for his fate to be decided._

_Voldemort regarded him in silence for a few moments, an eerie silence hanging over the gathering, before turning to the Death Eater on Snape's right. 'Tell me,' he asked, 'What is the punishment for a Death Eater who turns on his master?'_

'_Death, my Lord,' came the unwilling reply._

'_My Lord,' Snape cut in, still bent and kneeling at Voldemort's feet, 'Please, this documentation is false, a lie, I have proof, my…'_

_He was cut off as Voldemort pointed his wand at him and muttered, 'Expelliarmus. Iaceo.' flicking the tip of his wand into the circle of Death Eaters and catching hold of Snape's own wand. Snape was dragged along the ground to lie in a sprawling heap in the circle's centre._

'_My Lord,' he began again, still desperately trying to survive, 'please, my Lord, I…'_

'_Silencio,' Voldemort muttered. Snape mouthed another few syllables then stopped, closing his eyes, seemingly defeated. Voldemort casually snapped Snape's wand in one quick movement, and tossed the pieces to the ground._

'_Whom shall I choose for this… unparalleled honour?' he asked, pacing the circle once again. He stopped before the woman he'd earlier Marked. 'As my newest follower,' he said, 'I would enjoy a display of your… capabilities.'_

_She bowed her head. 'I would consider myself privileged to rid the world of this traitor, my Lord.'_

_He nodded in approval before continuing around the circle, considering the others carefully. The woman took a step forwards, raising her head with pride, as Voldemort stopped beside another Death Eater. 'I believe it would also be… beneficial… for you to deliver his punishment,' he said thoughtfully._

_The figure bowed his head as the woman had done, and said in a thickened voice, 'It would be a great honour, my Lord.'_

_Snape must have recognised the voice, because he gasped – soundlessly – and stared at Voldemort with uttermost revulsion, mouthing something that looked incredibly like 'Bastard.'_

_The two chosen Death Eaters stepped to the middle; Voldemort fell back, smiling cruelly. 'I would like this punishment,' he said slowly, 'to be as painful and as long as possible. You understand me?'_

'_Yes, my Lord,' the woman said; the other figure simply nodded._

'_Then you may begin when you are ready,' Voldemort said, pointing his wand at Snape and removing the silencing charm with a 'Sonus.'_

_The woman was the first to begin, and a savage surge of joy – Voldemort's joy – flowed through Harry so fiercely that he never heard what she said; heard only Snape's scream and felt only the burning pain in his scar as he was flung back into consciousness…_

* * *

**A/N:** Spells: '_Morsmordre Insigne_,' is my invented spell for Marking new Death Eaters: _Morsmordre_ you all know, and '_insigne'_ means a mark. '_Iaceo'_ means I throw, and 's_onus'_, the counter spell to 's_ilencio_,' means 'sound'. 

And yes, that is the end of the chapter. According to one of my betae, 'your reviewers will rip you to shreds for this injustice!' Please. Please, don't. Being in shreds will greatly impair my ability to write. (On the other hand, she's seeing me in school on Wednesday, so if I disappear suddenly, you know what's happened to me.)

For those who have read Macbeth, you may be amused to realise that the Death Eaters were, indeed, supposed to be meeting upon a heath (where the witches met in the play.)

This week's question is related to the last week's question. Since so many of us seem to be 'in the closet' about our fanfictional preferences, we need a closet-equivalent to come out of. We could come out of the broom-cupboard, or possibly the Chamber of Secrets. Suggestions?

Review!


	14. Act Four, Scene Two

Macbeth: Act Four, Scene Two

**Disclaimer: **Nope, I don't own Harry Potter yet, although I am plotting to murder JK Rowling and take over her throne… oops, I mean books.

**Thanks for 604 reviews goes to:** PsYcHoJo, yourGUN-myhead, Pheonix, brettley, Cassandra Raven, Noubliz, Silver Moonset, Go10, Catelina, willowfairy, mrswyrr, Plaidly Lush, Keindra, Munching Munchkin Managem, KawaiiRyu, aicila, Stoneage Woman, Flexi Lexi, Nikki, Crystal Dragonfly, draconas, Dustbunnie (x2), Falcon Wing, WWJD4mE2LiVe, citcat299, RedWitch1, Janie Granger, Sam8, Silvestria, Flavagurl, Opalfire, sugar n spice 522, Tayz, Miko-Hime, Lisi, Madam Midnight, luckdragon, heavengurl899 (x2), dand-e-lion, SycoCallie, amerie, samhaincat, Poojies, Mjade-1, BouncingDelta88 (x3), Indygodusk, ToOtHpIcK, La Suede, Trixie7, DracoDraconis (x5), spinach, DragonSpirit7037.

**A/N:** I managed to survive the fortnight without being ripped to shreds! Though I did set the contents of my rubbish bin alight yesterday by accident. My parents still don't know about it, though my room has a certain eau de burning newspaper. If they did find out, they couldn't say anything anyway, as my mother has twice set fire to the bed. _While she was in it_. Lung damage is not the only way to kill yourself with a cigarette!

Moving on to less morbid things: my three favourite suggestions for what we Pottermaniacs should come out of included: the Astronomy Tower, the Department of Mysteries and the Forbidden Forest. Or my own idea: the Cupboard under the Stairs! You know it makes sense.

Anyway, no more delays: onto the chapter with all due speed. Enjoy!

* * *

'_Harry!_'

They had heard, quiet but chillingly clear, a faint gasp of alarm; Harry was curled up on the sofa, eyes screwed tightly shut, his scar burning red. Hermione was by his side faster than she could think, as was Ron, and then Harry snapped awake. His eyes were wide and he heaved in deep breaths as if he couldn't get enough air, one hand pressed tightly to his scar. 'Snape!'

Hermione took a deep breath, feeling as though she'd just been punched in the stomach. 'Come on, calm down,' she said, trying to stay calm herself, taking hold of Harry's wrist. 'It's okay now, the vision's over, you're safe.'

Harry shook his head. 'No, no,' he muttered, face eerily white in contrast to the blood-red scar on his forehead. He took one last deep breath and pulled himself together. 'I'm fine. I'm _fine_.'

'That's the spirit,' Ron said, grinning nervously and slipping onto the sofa beside Harry, watching him worriedly. They were close to the fire, which was burning with a hot ruddy-gold light, but Harry was still shivering. 'Did you… did you have…'

Ron bit his lip; Hermione finished the sentence. 'What did you see?' she asked quietly. She couldn't help but remember what happened last time Harry had a vision, and shuddered; Harry must have felt it because he pulled his wrist out of her hand and stared at the fire.

'Nothing,' he said firmly. 'I didn't… I didn't see anything.'

Ron frowned. 'But… your scar…'

'I didn't see _anything_!' Harry snarled, jerking away from Ron. 'Nothing. Nothing at _all_.'

Ron gave Hermione a perplexed frown; Harry carried on staring stubbornly at the fire, the flickering light making his expression look even more eerie. His arms folded tightly; he seemed to be trying to take up as little space as possible.

If he had seen something, it meant that something important was happening with Voldemort. A memory flashed through her mind, of Draco, only a few hours ago. _'There's a meeting tonight… It's too soon. He never holds them this close together.'_ Had Harry seen the meeting? Had something important happened?

Or, of course, the meeting could be to set up a trap for Harry to fall into; it could be a false vision meant to mislead him…

Deciding to take a risk, Hermione tried, 'You said _Snape_… when you woke up…'

Harry started violently at the sound of Snape's name, but didn't say a word. Hermione continued. 'Was it something about him?'

'I didn't see anything!' Harry repeated; this time it was more of a desperate plea. He pulled his knees up onto the sofa and tucked them under his chin, arms wrapped around his legs.

'Harry…'

Harry put his forehead on his knees, so they couldn't see his face, and was silent. Ron gave Hermione a desperate look, as if asking her what to do, but she didn't know. She hated that feeling, that helplessness: the answer to this was not something you could find in books. They couldn't tell whether whatever Harry had seen was real or not, and she didn't know how to get him to tell them, or how to make him feel better, or how to stop him shivering.

Dumbledore. That was something she could focus on. They should go and tell Dumbledore: he might be able to tell…

'It's a trap,' Harry whispered, pain in his voice 'It's a trap, Voldemort just wants me to go and get killed, or for me to tell Dumbledore and send the Order into a trap, or…

'Harry,' Hermione repeated gently, taking his hand in an attempt to soothe him, 'you don't know. It could be real.'

There was no sound from Harry for a moment, then he lifted his head, resting his chin on his knees and giving them each a short glance before staring at the fire and saying, very quickly, 'I saw a Death Eater meeting.'

Hermione shivered. Had he seen Malfoy? The Death Eaters wore masks and hoods, but if Malfoy's hood had fallen down, he had impossibly distinctive hair, Harry would have recognised it. Or Voldemort could have called him by name. And what if he was in danger? She squeezed his hand tightly, which he seemed to take as an invitation to go on.

'I saw… there was an initiation, some new member, and then Voldemort started talking about their… their successes. And then how things had gone wrong sometimes, and then he said there was a spy…'

He stopped talking with an odd choking sound, but Hermione could guess the rest. 'Snape,' she whispered, and sat frozen for a minute before hastily getting to her feet. 'Come on.'

'Where?' Ron asked. 'And… what did he do to Snape? Did he…'

The meaning was obvious. 'Torture. Yes,' Harry whispered. 'I woke up before I saw _what_…'

There was a horrible pause before Hermione spoke. 'We should go to Dumbledore's office,' she said gently. Harry's head snapped up immediately.

'What?' he asked. 'No. We're not going. We're _not_.'

'But Snape…' Ron said, confused. 'We can't just leave him to die!'

Harry shook his head furiously. 'Voldemort's sent me false visions before, he can do so again,' he said, fiercely. 'I'm not going. Not getting more people killed. _No_.'

'But you've had real visions before,' Hermione said. 'Like Mr Weasley and the snake. If you hadn't told someone then…'

'My dad would have died,' Ron finished solemnly, after a second of silence, in which Harry stared very hard at the red and gold pattern on the sofa. 'We should at least tell Dumbledore.'

'I'm not even meant to be having these visions,' Harry said quietly, looking down at the floor. 'That was the point of the Occlumency. Just… Just pretend it never happened.'

'It's not like we're running off on our own this time,' Hermione pointed out, coming back to kneel beside him, trying to persuade him. 'This is important. Dumbledore would _want_ to know. He might even be able to check if Snape really is in danger…'

'No.' Harry repeated. 'I'm not… I don't want another… another death on my conscience.' He sucked in a deep breath, as though that had been hard to say, and pressed his face into his knees. 'If I tell Dumbledore and he goes off into a trap with the Order and people get killed then it's _my_ fault. I can't – I _won't_ let that happen again.'

What Harry said was a possibility, but perhaps it was one that they had to risk. Snape could be dying, and Dumbledore might be able to find out whether he was, whether it was a false vision. It was a better hope, a better chance, than staying here and _waiting_.

'And if you don't go and tell Dumbledore, and we go down for breakfast tomorrow and find out that Snape's dead?' Hermione asked; Harry flinched visibly, not meeting her eyes.

'I don't now what to _do_,' he said, his pain and confusion evident in his voice. 'I can't tell Dumbledore because then it might be a trap and I'll put the Order in danger, so I have to stay silent. But I can't stay silent, because it might be real and then Snape will die, so I have to tell Dumbledore, but I _can't_ tell Dumbledore because-'

'I've just realised something,' Ron interrupted, his face rapidly paling. 'Harry, Voldemort – in your vision, he accused Snape of being a spy, right?' Harry nodded silently. 'So even if it _is_ a false vision, it must mean that he knows. He _knows_ Snape's a spy… and if he knows that, he isn't likely to leave Snape alone,' he concluded.

Harry looked up sharply. 'I…' He screwed his eyes shut, and Hermione knew he was fighting himself. 'We'll go to Dumbledore. Snape's in danger whether it's true or not. I'll… I'll get my Invisibility Cloak.'

* * *

There was a hand holding hers. That was the first thing she noticed, upon waking from a deliciously peaceful darkness: a hand, cold as death and a little thin, as though it were all bone and no flesh, and clinging on to her hand a little too tightly. But she smiled anyway, and turned her head towards it without opening her eyes, resting on the smooth pillow. It felt like part of the dream.

'_Hermione_.'

The voice wasn't a dream; it was low, a harsh whisper with an undertone of pure fear; like someone who has seen all his demons at once, all the monsters that hide in the shadows, and Hermione was _awake_.

Her eyes opened. 'Draco?' she asked, incredulously, then remembered that she was in the dormitory at some impossible hour – it was well past midnight – and continued in a whisper. 'Draco, what are you _doing_ here?'

He was kneeling on the floor beside her bed, clinging – there was no other word for it – clinging to her hand as though he were afraid of losing it, looking up at her. His face was impossibly white in the dimly-lit dormitory, as though someone had painted a picture of him in black ink and brought it to life; black and white and no shades of grey.

'I have supped full with horrors,' he whispered, meeting her confused gaze with an unblinking one, wide eyed. Shivering. 'I have done the deed, a deed of dreadful note. These deeds must not be thought after these ways; so, it will make us mad. Mad,' he repeated, looking at her, desperation in his eyes.

Hermione sat up and reached for her wand with her free hand: she couldn't risk Lavender and Parvati waking up and hearing this. '_Impedimentum Sonito_', she muttered, twice, pointing first at Lavender's bed and then Parvati's. Draco sat back, his hand still tightly in hers, still shaking, and rested his head on her blanket, closing his eyes.

Hermione put down her wand and reached out towards, him, stopping for a second just short of touching him, then letting her fingers stroke, lightly, along the side of his face. They came away slightly sticky, slightly warm. _Blood_.

Her fingers flinched. She'd heard what had happened at the meeting: she'd been there when Harry hastily recounted the vision to an increasingly worried Dumbledore. And she'd known Draco was there, and she'd been worried for him, and hoped he was okay, but she hadn't expected this.

'What… what happened?' she heard herself asking, voice shaking slightly. 'What did you do?'

He looked up at her, shaking his head vehemently. 'No,' he whispered. 'I am afraid to _think_ what I have done. Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?' he asked, raising the hand with which he held hers so tightly, and in the moonlight she could see that it was streaked and stained with blood.

She almost screamed: it felt like something out of a horror novel, out of a nightmare, except that this was real and happening and here and _now_, and Draco had… She knew what he had done, what he had been made to do, as clearly as she knew her own name, but surely something must keep it from happening in real life, keep it confined to the realm of the imaginary, the terrifying…

'He made you torture Snape,' Hermione said, each word feeling like a thick and blood-covered weight on her tongue, and Draco hissed, curling himself tighter into a ball, eyes closed. She reached out, less tentatively this time, to touch his hair. 'Oh, _Draco_…'

'Murders have been performed too terrible for the ear,' he whispered, half a whine, then looked up at her, tightening his hold on her hand slightly. 'Be innocent of the knowledge.'

'I know already,' she whispered back. 'Listen to me, Draco. Snape's fine. He's in the Hospital wing right now with Madam Pomfrey: she says he's going to be fine. The Order rescued him in time.'

They'd gone to Dumbledore's office; he'd been sitting there, awake, with some odd silver disc in his hand glowing a bright red. They'd found out later that meant Snape was being tortured. With Harry's vision, and the disc as evidence, Dumbledore had lost no time in getting the Order together and getting Snape back. The three of them had waited in the common room, incredibly tired but unwilling to sleep, until Professor McGonagall came and told them that Snape was alive and in Madam Pomfrey's care.

Draco shook his head. 'I killed him,' he whispered. 'You didn't see it, Hermione, this most bloody piece of work…'

'He's not dead. He's going to be fine,' she repeated, trying to sound soothing when she was closer to terrified. 'Madam Pomfrey says so. And what happened isn't your fault, you didn't have a choice.'

He looked up at her, the corners of his lips twisted into some frightening, pitiable parody of a smile. 'There's always a choice. Potter wouldn't have… have killed him. _You_ wouldn't.'

'You aren't Harry. You aren't me,' Hermione said firmly. 'And you didn't have a choice. Draco…'

'There's always a choice,' he repeated, looking at her sharply, eyes as silver and sharp as mercury, because too much mercury could make you go mad. 'Always a choice, and I chose to torture him, I chose it, I…' He held up a shaking hand, red blood staining white skin, and laughed, a little hysterically. 'Steeped in the colours of their trade, see? Unmannerly breached with gore. The colours of my trade, because I am…' His voice, thin and weak, gave out, leaving him staring at his hands, his skin, in utter horror. Hermione reached out and caught his shoulder, and he glanced up at her with a shaking smile on his face.

'His secret murders sticking on his hands,' he whispered, his voice choked. 'My murders, the people I've tortured, the things I've stood there and watched because I was too afraid to do anything about them, sticking to my hands, the blood never comes off and they _won't stop screaming_…'

'Draco!' She was frightened, now; he was going to fall apart on her bedroom floor, and that would be the end of any sanity he had left, and that would be the end of Draco. '_Listen_ to me. Snape's _not_ dead. He's alive, and he's fine, and you can probably visit him tomorrow but you have to stay _sane_, please, Draco, don't go mad…'

'It's not just Snape,' Draco murmured. 'Do you think I haven't done that before? He knows what it does to me,' he whispered, looking up at her, his eyes desperate. '_He_ knows. He likes… likes choosing me… making me… it…'

Draco shook his head, dipping his head so his face was cast into shadow, and Hermione didn't know what to say. What could she say? Nothing could make it any better; nothing could _help_.

'You should get that cloak off,' she eventually said into the eerie silence. 'It's-'

'Covered in blood,' Draco finished, with something that could have been a laugh and could have been a sob. He fumbled with the clasp one-handed; the other one still clinging to Hermione's. After watching him struggle for a few seconds she reached out, clumsy with her left hand, and between them they managed to get it undone. He threw it to the floor, leaving him dressed in a plain black robe.

'That's better,' Hermione muttered, picking up her wand with her free hand and muttering 'Scourgify!' at the cloak. Draco, watching her, shook his head.

'The blood doesn't come off. I told you. It never comes off. Never.' He whispered, drawing closer to the bed, away from the cloak.

'Of course it comes off,' Hermione replied soothingly, putting her wand back down and picking up the cloak, holding it out to him. It was, indeed, perfectly clean. 'See? No more blood. It's all in your head.'

'That's the worst place for it to be,' he replied, eying the cloak warily, as though it were some vicious monster made from shadow and black cloth and memories. 'O, full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife!'

She dropped the cloak. He turned his head away from it, shaking, and she reached for his shoulder again, trying to soothe him. 'Hush. You're safe now, he can't make you do anything here.'

He buried his face in her blanket as though trying to hide. 'I can't escape my mind. I can't escape…' he said, voice muffled.

She was at a loss; how could you argue against madness, a madness that saw only washed-away blood and nowhere to run to, nowhere safe? She stroked his back, and then, an impulse, said 'Come up here.'

He glanced up, allowing the tiniest glittering shred of an eye to be seen. 'Come on,' she repeated, and tugged on his shoulder, and he slowly clambered onto the bed.

He was shivering, still, though it had been five minutes since he'd woken her and who knew how long since he'd actually come in, and when she touched the hand that hadn't been holding hers it was as cold as death. 'You're freezing,' she said, frowning, and gathered up her blanket, attempting to wrap it around him where he knelt on the bed, which was difficult with only one hand. He still hadn't let go of it.

While she struggled, Draco stared at her blankly as if he didn't understand what she was doing, making no move to help or stop her but simply watching as she tugged the heavy thing around him, over his shoulders like a mantle, until he was wrapped in the gold and red Gryffindor blanket. He looked impossibly out of place, the bloodstained, guilty Death Eater wrapped in Gryffindor colours, soft and warm. Then he clutched the end of the blanket with his free hand. 'Thanks,' was all he said, not looking at her.

Hermione watched him for a minute, feeling oddly embarrassed to be doing so. She shouldn't be seeing him like this. Not when he was weak, not when he was half insane and forced to fly or crawl to his enemy for help and the warmth of a blanket. To someone who he thought was an animal, not even human. That thought hurt her now more than it ever had before, like a stab straight through the heart with a sword sharp enough to cut moonbeams.

But he had come to _her_. It wasn't entirely surprising. Who else knew he was insane, who else would help him? The Slytherins would be mocking or disdainful, and everyone else would fear him or hate him and turn him away. For the first time, she fully realised that Draco had no one else to turn to. No one but her.

She gave his hand a gentle squeeze, and he raised his head – he hadn't moved for five minutes. He looked her in the eye, briefly, as if trying to work out what she was thinking, before his eyes dropped to the place where their joined hands rested.

'What hands are here?' he asked in a whisper. 'Ha! They pluck out mine eyes.' They were still smeared with blood; long streaks of it, vanishing into the sleeves of his robe. Hermione didn't want to think about how they got there, about what he could have done to get them there.

She had to stay calm, though, for his sake. 'Do you want me to _Scourgify_ them for you?' she asked. He glanced up at her sharply, then shook his head.

'Go get some water, and wash this filthy witness from your hand,' he said firmly, staring at his hand, then gave a trembling laugh 'Water won't work. It never does. It never goes away, the blood, it never goes away. Blood is thicker than water.'

'Of course you can wash it away,' she said. 'Blood comes off. Do you… do you want water?' Water made sense, in the bizarre Macbeth-inspired world of Draco's insanity. He didn't say anything in response, but he reached out his hand from the blanket and rubbed his two hands together, without letting go out of her hand, as though he were clumsily trying to wash them. Like Lady Macbeth, sleepwalking…

With her free hand, she dragged out one of her pillows from behind her and then picked up her wand. '_Calix_,' she said, and the pillow morphed perfectly into a small wooden bowl, which she pointed her wand at again, and a muttered _'Frigida'_ provided a stream of cool water from the end of her wand.

'Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood clean from my hand?' Draco asked, watching her. He was still rubbing his hands together, hampered by the fact that he wouldn't let go of her hand.

'Yes,' Hermione told him, her voice quiet. 'The blood, at least, will come off.' She gently lifted the hand to which he was clinging – his hands went with it - and dipped it in the bowl, feeling the sudden shock of icy water, the meagre warmth of Draco's hands. The water began to grow murky with blood.

'See? It's coming off,' she told him. He was staring at his hands as if in horror. 'It's fine. It's all alright.' She paused for a moment, looking at him as he sat utterly motionless, barely even breathing. 'There's still some on your face,' she said, a little uncertainly. 'Do you… do you mind if I…?'

He shook his head, the motion only just perceptible, but permission none the less. Tentatively, she scooped up a little water from the bowl and brought it towards his face, gently smoothing the blood from his skin. It felt… smooth, surprisingly, and cold.

'You're freezing,' she muttered without thinking, as she gently trailed her fingertips across his forehead to the next bloodsmear; he closed his eyes as a single drop of water rolled down his skin, colourless on white, and over his eyelid to rest, tentatively, trapped in his eyelash.

'There,' she said, a moment later, pulling her fingers away from his skin sharply. Her voice was too high, somehow. 'Clean. And your… your hands are, too. It does come off.'

He opened his eyes at that, sharply, and raised his free hand out of the bowl, examining it critically before scowling. 'Yet here's a spot,' he said firmly. 'What, will these hands n'er be clean?'

'They are clean,' Hermione told him, catching the hand he was examining with her own. 'See? No blood.'

He shook his head. 'A little water clears us of this deed. That's what _you_ said. But nothing gets rid of the blood. It's still there.'

'Draco, don't-' she began, but he cut her off.

'You don't understand. You haven't… you've never… the blood doesn't come off. It never does. Does it look like it has, to you? That's a lie. All things foul would wear the brows of grace, and so a murderer's bloodstained hand must look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under't. The blood's still there, that perilous stuff which weighs upon the heart, Hermione, that can't be washed away. Not with water. Not with water. Hermione…'

And she knew he was right, because while his skin on the outside was a white as a unicorn's, on the inside… On the inside she could only imagine. He looked up at her then, his eyes like broken mirrors – or, if the eyes were the window to the soul, then perhaps it was himself which was broken, shattered, in a million pieces with edges like daggers.

She moved the bowl to her table with one hand, careful not to spill, then crawled up next to him and carefully, tentatively, wrapped her free arm around him, pulling him close to her, still firmly holding his free hand. He didn't say anything, but after a minute he awkwardly lent his head against her shoulder, and adjusted the Gryffindor blanket around himself more comfortably, and closed his eyes.

Hermione gave his hair a gentle stroke with her free hand, and ever so slowly he started to lean more and more of his weight on her, his body slowly relaxing, tense muscles slackening and – she was glad to see – getting slowly warmer. His breathing softened and slowed until finally, after an hour or an eternity of sitting and watching him, Hermione realised he was asleep.

She couldn't send him away, not now, not after all this, and he looked so peaceful in his sleep that she couldn't bear to wake him. Carefully, she tipped him over until he was lying flat on the bed, his head on the pillow, then she slipped away from him, tugging her hand out of his, and slid out of the bed. She couldn't let Lavender and Parvati find out; that was imperative.

The water went down the sink, and she turned the bowl back into a pillow. Draco's cloak and broomstick – that must be how he'd got in – went into her trunk, and she removed the silence wards from her roommate's beds. Those would have been hard to explain. Finally, she set a useful spell on her wand that would cause her to wake at six o'clock – she needed enough time to get Draco out without anyone seeing – and climbed back into bed, pulling the hangings shut.

A sudden wave of exhaustion caught hold of her as she saw Draco, fast asleep and tangled in her blanket. He looked peaceful, though she doubted he was. He wasn't innocent, and he looked that as he slept, too.

Beautiful she might be able to agree on, she thought with a smile, and carefully pushed a wisp of wayward hair behind his ear.

It was an icy night; Hermione managed to untangle just enough of the blanket to cover her, before resting her head on the pillow and closing her eyes. She had just enough time to find his hand again under the blankets and take hold of it before exhaustion and worry pulled her into the warm, deep blackness of sleep.

* * *

**A/N:** '_Impedimentum Sonito_' means 'barrier to noise', '_Calix_' means 'bowl, and _'Frigida' _means 'cold water'. (It was also used in Act Two, Scene Two.)

For those of you who have read the play and like playing find-the-Macbeth-quotes, there are no fewer than **21** in the final scene. If anyone finds them all I will be amazed. Some of them are famous or quite obvious; others are more subtle.

This week's question: I've been noticing lately that Macbeth has a far smaller readership than Fallen, even though (in my humble opinion) it's the better story. I think it might be because it involves Shakespeare – quite a few reviewers have said that they were reluctant to read it at first because of that. Do you agree? Have you read the play, and if not, do you/did you find the fic at all daunting? Has anyone read the play _because_ of the fic? Basically – what's your opinion?

Review!


	15. Act Four, Scene Three

Macbeth: Act Four, Scene Three

**Disclaimer: **I cannot hide it any more: I am, in fact, both JK Rowling AND Shakespeare. (There was a minor accident with a Gender-Changing potion and a Time Turner.) Or I could just be utterly insane. Which might be more likely…

**Thanks for 718 reviews goes to:** Rebecca15, Cassandra Raven, PhAnToM-ChiK, Flexi Lexi, papercrane, marie, MiRoRmInX, Lisi, FromHereToThere, rogue solus, RedWitch1, nikethana, angel, pensive puddles, willowfairy, brettley, Pheonix, SugarQuillCandy, jewell, Nikki, OBXglider, BouncingDelta88, foxeran, Bella, DracoDraconis, darkcherry, kessi1011, mizzyfreak7, draconas, Genevieve Jones, Madam Midnight, Beboots, katelyn812, Lyra Silvertongue2, samhaincat, Alexi Lupin (x13), JeCours, PsYcHoJo yourGUN-myhead, mswyrr, Calixte Ammonian, SilverMoonset, Princess Amara of Conte, insanemaniac, cindy, Scaz85, Catelina, Janie Granger, Silvestria, LittleGreenPerson, Opalfire, hazardous, plumsy321, hidden relevance, peterpanswendy, langocska, KawaiiRyu, Flavagurl, DreamingOne, Plaidly Lush, Xandrael, Jenie, Wench, ToOtHpIcK, debbie, dustbunnie, logicube, J-squeegy-tikiman, mesmer, Sever13, treehorse, ablakevh, Tayz, Kou Shun'u (x2), abi-j, sugar n spice 522, h0ll0ws0ng, Nathonea, Francinator, TsuirakuMitsukai, Serpentine Wisdom, Chiinoyami-chan, ameri, Sunshine, StoneageWoman, WWJD4mE2LiVe, LoniGirl, heavengurl899, Marti Is So Cool, ArashiAkurei, Daunting Darkness, leafsfan4eva, Aeriel Ravenna, C Argentum, JanCarpeDiem, stellarr, transcendent-sin, Donniedarkobunnylover, angoradebs, SilverT-Spoon.

**A/N:** Right after the chapter where I remark Macbeth has a smaller readership than Fallen, you gang up on me and prove me wrong! It's a conspiracy, I'm sure of it…

**Macbeth is** **nominated** in three categories at the Dangerous Liaisons award site, as is Cursed, for those of you who've read it. The link is in my profile, keeps adding a bit of a address onto the front of the link for some odd reason; if you get this error, just remove everything before the second w w w) Voting ends March 10th, and all the other fics on the site are also amazing – vote for your favourites!

Congratulations to everyone who even dared to try and find the Shakespeare quotes in the last chapter – Pheonix, MiRoRmInX, Syco and foxeran! There were actually 22 – I missed one… I would try and do scoring, but with people counting separate quotes as one quote, one quote as separate quotes, and coming up with incorrect quotes, it got a bit tricky. Thus all have won, and all shall have prizes… or, well, applause and congratulations. And congrats also to Alexi Lupin, who spotted that the last scene of chapter 14 was foreshadowed in the very first chapter. I didn't expect anyone to spot that!

I was also quite surprised and pleased to see how many people read Macbeth specifically because it had Shakespeare, and how many had read the play specifically of the fic. (You can find copies online.; just search in Google for Shakespeare.) And amused by the fact that the only person who correctly referred to Shakespeare as Middle English, rather then Old English, was not a native English speaker. (If you came across a page of Old English script, you actually wouldn't be able to recognise it as anything like English, it's that different.)

In answer to a question: no, Macbeth won't be as long as Fallen. I'm not sure about exact length as things have a habit of changing on me as I go along, but approximately 20 chapters total.

And now, onto the chapter. Enjoy!

* * *

When Hermione awoke the next morning, Draco was gone.

She was woken at precisely six o'clock by the spell she'd set, the magic snapping her from sleep to full consciousness with no soft, warm grey area in between, and immediately knew he was gone. Opening her eyes, she groped for her wand in the near darkness. It was just before dawn, and the night's darkness was taking on a peculiar grey-gold tint.

'_Lumos_,' she muttered, and the soft, clean glow of the wandlight revealed what she already knew; the bed was emptier than it had ever felt before. The blanket, which had been in such a contorted tangle when they'd fallen asleep, had been smoothed out and spread neatly over her. Hermione pushed it aside and slipped out of bed, tiptoeing to her trunk. Draco's cloak and broomstick were gone, and one of the curtains was still open. He'd left through the window, then.

In the surreal light of dawn, the crack of time between the night before and the morning after, everything that had happened began to feel like some contorted dream. A very realistic dream, but dreams could be realistic, couldn't they?

Hermione slipped back into bed, closing her eyes. She could remember exactly how Draco had looked, with her blanket wrapped around him and the Mark sharp and vivid against his pale skin, the way nothing she could do seemed to make him warmer. The way even his smile had seemed mad, the way his eyes had shone in the dim light of the dormitory, the way his laugh had been breaking. He kept washing his hands, too and he wouldn't believe the blood had gone away.

That was how she proved it to herself, that it had happened. When she looked, there was a smear of dried blood on her sheets, the shape of a finger in a darker shade of Gryffindor crimson. 'Scourgify,' she muttered, shuddering as she remembered where that blood had come from.

It was quarter past six in the morning, and far too early to be up. Far too early to be thinking about insanity and Death Eaters, Snape and torture, anyway. Hermione put her head down on the pillow, ignored the approaching dawn, and managed to fall asleep again.

This time, she did dream about Draco.

* * *

Eight o'clock that evening found Hermione waiting in the library, her copy of Macbeth open in font of her. They were supposed to be rehearsing that day. Their Act Two, Scene Two needed a little work, and the performance was drawing closer with alarming speed, so they'd arranged to meet. Usual time, usual place.

It was only yesterday that they'd made the arrangement, casually, at the end of another long practice with the directors, but it felt much longer. Hermione could almost bring herself to believe that everything after Harry's vision had really been stretched out over days, not mere hours, and she'd simply been too tense at the time to notice. Days spent deliberating over whether to go to Dumbledore, days spent in agonising suspense waiting for news of Snape, and further days spent in bed, in darkness, trying to calm an insane Draco.

Draco was late, which wasn't like him; Draco was never late unless he was doing it on purpose, to annoy her, which he hadn't done for weeks. Hermione flicked through her copy of the script, re-reading the lines she'd already memorised and shivering. She told herself that it was because of a draught, or simply the November cold creeping among the ancient books, but she knew it was because the words and phrases and murders reminded her too much of what had happened, and almost happened, last night. Snape was lucky the Order had reached him in time.

Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?

She firmly pushed the script to one side and leant forwards on the table, sighing and glancing at her watch. Ten minutes late. Perhaps he'd forgotten? After everything that had happened to him, it would be understandable. But Draco had tortured people before. Killed, even, and he'd never yet forgotten a rehearsal. He had a good memory - she'd seen that when he appeared to learn his words effortlessly. And if he didn't, he'd write rehearsal times down somewhere, to give the _impression_ of having a perfect memory.

Fifteen minutes late.

Suddenly restless, Hermione got to her feet. She couldn't leave the area, in case he had forgotten, or been delayed, and would be arriving at any moment, pale-faced and looking as fragile as fine bone china, the kind you could see light through if you held it up to a window, the kind which shattered into icicle-shards if you dropped it from careless fingers.

Or perhaps he'd be calm, all his defences in place, casual and collected. He would apologise for being late. He was held up talking to a teacher, someone innocuous – Professor Flitwick, he had a tendency to ramble on a bit if you let him – about a test or homework or something innocent like that, and only a faint tremor in his voice would tell her he'd really been explaining himself to Dumbledore, or talking to Snape. They'd act, and partway through the scene his voice would stick at some phrase or other, and that's when he would look like porcelain, like china. And she would go over to him and put a gentle hand on his arm, asking if he was alright, and he would say no, and she would put an arm around him and…

And Draco was now twenty minutes late, and that was far too long for him to be simply delayed. Hermione doubted he'd forgotten, and with a simple delay unlikely, she began to get a growing feeling that he wasn't coming on purpose. He was avoiding her.

She hadn't seen him all day, except for briefly across the Great Hall at meals and across classrooms in the few lessons they shared. Potions had been cancelled, though Dumbledore and not yet explained why to the students. Rumours abounded, of course, suggesting anything from Snape's tragic death due to a Potions accident to Snape running off with a half-Veela seductress. In reality, Snape was in the Hospital Wing, conscious and stable at the last they'd heard, though Madam Pomfrey was still worried about him.

Twenty-five minutes.

He was avoiding her; there was no other explanation for it, and Hermione resumed her seat, tucking her feet underneath her and thinking. Why was he avoiding her? She must have done something wrong, or said something wrong. Perhaps she should have made him go back to his own bed, rather than letting him stay in hers; perhaps he was embarrassed. But he'd been in no fit state to go anywhere, she reminded herself, and he'd needed rest.

He could be frightened about what she thought of him. He could think that now she'd seen what he'd done, seen the blood for herself, she wouldn't want anything to do with him. But no, that was nonsense; she'd known what Draco did as a Death Eater before last night.

And he must know that she still cared about him. She had let him stay in her bed, still wrapped in her blanket; she had held his hand as he slept and helped him wash the blood away. That had to be proof enough that she cared.

Thirty minutes.

Perhaps he was disgusted at having spent the night in a Muggleborn's bed. A Mudblood's bed, he'd put it, and she shifted uncomfortably. Perhaps he was ashamed, angry with her. But he'd needed her help. He'd been insane, completely out of control, and he'd come to her, to a Muggleborn. What did that say about him? She didn't know. She was the only one who knew what he was and would help him: perhaps that was the reason. Even in the throes of madness, he'd come to her and not anyone else in the school, straight to _her_. Because he knew that she cared about him and wanted to help him.

Thirty-five minutes.

Hermione didn't quite remember when she'd started to care about Draco, but somewhere between now and the first time she'd seen his insanity, in the library right after he'd almost been stabbed fatally by Harry's sword, she must have started to. Earlier then that, perhaps; she'd started to get on with him even before she found out he was a Death Eater, before all this confusion and mess began.

Before he was forced to torture Snape. Hermione could only imagine what that must have been like, and she knew her mind couldn't do justice to the terror of Voldemort, the horror of the blood, the darkness and the pain. What would it feel like to torture someone, she wondered morbidly, to torture someone who she knew, who had taught her for years and been her Head of House besides, too afraid to stop, to refuse, because if she did Voldemort would probably have her tortured too as well as Snape…

Forty minutes.

What would it feel like to be Snape? Hermione couldn't even begin to consider that; she didn't know enough about him. Had he known it was Draco torturing him? What had he thought? Had he thought Draco was doing it willingly, pleased to be ridding the Dark Lord of a traitor, or had he known Draco was unwilling, even mad?

Hermione didn't know whether Snape knew or not. Instinctively, she felt that he didn't know, but she had no logical basis for that. Draco wouldn't let anyone find out if he could help it, of course, and she knew that Draco mustn't have betrayed his insanity explicitly at the Death Eater meetings. Mainly from the fact that he was still alive; she couldn't see Voldemort allowing a follower who had suddenly started screaming about blood and death and murders and floating daggers in the middle of a meeting to live.

Though Voldemort must have some idea; Draco's words from last night came back to her, haunting and desperate. _He knows what it does to me. He knows. He likes… likes choosing me… making me… it…' _Of course, Hermione realised: Voldemort was a Legilimens, so he'd have to know what was going on in Draco's mind. She had read about Occlumency and Legilimency when Harry had first started taking it. Insanity such as Draco's scrambled the mind, making it difficult to read but obvious to the Legilimens that the mind's owner was going mad. So Voldemort knew, though he probably didn't know much about it, and so he was… _playing_ with Draco, like a cat with a mouse. Or a snake with a mouse.

Hermione's fists clenched suddenly, furiously, and for a second the world before her faded to a dark haze. Draco was _her_ friend, and Voldemort was hurting him, like he'd hurt Harry so many times before, like he'd hurt Ginny in the Chamber, like he'd hurt _everyone_.

And now it was Draco, insane Draco, her Draco with the silvery hair and the deep grey eyes, and she wouldn't let that happen. She wouldn't let Voldemort have him and destroy his mind; she would _do_ something, because Draco was _hers_. Because she was the only one who knew, who understood, who cared; because she was the one who he came to, insane and bloodstained, for comfort in the night. She wouldn't let him down.

Hermione realised her knuckles were white as marble, and her fists were so tightly clenched that even the bones were aching. She opened them, laying them flat on the table, and at the same time let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. The world came back.

She felt as though she'd just been in the centre of a sandstorm in the middle of a desert; like the sandstorm had been burning and blasting the hot grit and dust around her chest, her heart and lungs, and let them bruised and injured and stinging. Hermione shuddered a little, surprised more than anything – what had set her off like that? She'd go mad too if she wasn't careful.

Setting the alarming moment aside, she turned, as she always did, to knowledge and planning. If she was to help Draco properly in the long-term, stop him from going completely insane, she had to convince him to turn away from Voldemort. Dumbledore would give him protection, she was sure, but the first hurdle was getting Draco to go to Dumbledore. Hermione had suggested it to him before, and he'd refused; he didn't trust Dumbledore to keep him safe, and he knew that if he left the Death Eaters he would be hunted. And now he'd seen what happened to traitors – quite literally at first hand – he'd be even harder to persuade. She could almost hear his voice, mocking with a trace of fear, _Dumbledore didn't do a very good job keeping Snape safe, did he?_

Snape. Things kept coming back to Snape. Snape was a Death Eater who had gone to Dumbledore, Snape had been tortured by Voldemort, almost killed, for spying. Snape's torture had been carried out by Draco's hand. Snape, very possibly, was the only one who had been where Draco was now – with the guilt, though Hermione doubted the insanity. Snape liked Draco; he'd always been one of Snape's favourite students, and she expected Snape would want to help him. Help him turn away from Voldemort, if that was what Draco wanted, and Hermione knew that if he wasn't terrified of retribution he would turn away in a heartbeat.

If she went to Snape and told him about Draco… Her chest tightened at the thought, it would be like betrayal. Telling Draco's secrets to someone else, someone he might not want to know. But Snape… Hermione was sure that Snape would only help. He might not be the kindest or most sympathetic of people, far from it, but he did care about the Slytherins he was Head of. It showed itself in odd ways, such as unfairly giving hem House Points and praising them over the Gryffindors, but he did, and he wouldn't want any of them to slip into Voldemort's clutches if he could help it. And he knew what it was like. He'd help; he'd be sarcastic and caustic about it, as always, but he'd help Draco.

She used that thought to press down any remaining qualms she had about telling him, and then – an hour after she was supposed to meet Draco – Hermione packed her things away and headed for the Hospital wing. 'This deed I'll do before my purpose cool,' she muttered to herself, and almost laughed when she realised she'd been quoting Macbeth.

* * *

'Oh, very well,' Madam Pomfrey gave in, dark eyebrows frowning. 'But not for long, Miss Granger, Professor Snape is still recovering and needs rest. Ten minutes,' she cautioned, raising a finger in warning,

Hermione nodded in agreement and followed the nurse as she turned and bustled across the room, heading for the bed furthest from the door, which was surrounded by clean white curtains.

She was beginning to have second thoughts. It had taken her five minutes to persuade Madam Pomfrey to let her see Snape – she had lied and said she desperately needed to discuss some very important Potions work – and all that time she'd been starting to doubt.

Draco trusted her. He'd proved that much when he came to her last night, when he told her about the Death Eater meeting in the Muggle Studies storeroom. And telling Snape about his madness would be betraying that trust, in a way, because Draco didn't want her to tell anyone.

Snape's help would be invaluable, though. He'd been in a similar position; he knew the risks, what it was like being a Death Eater, the dangers of changing sides. Draco respected him and might listen to his advice. And if Snape knew that torturing and killing people was sending Draco insane… Hermione was aware that torturing Snape would be haunting Draco, though she didn't like to think how long for; and if Snape was aware that insanity was part of the problem he'd be able to help Draco better.

'Severus?' Madam Pomfrey asked, stopping outside the curtain and hovering, waiting permission. 'You have a visitor.'

A disgruntled sigh came from within the curtain, along with the shuffling of parchment. 'Very well, Poppy,' came the reply, in Snape's usual sharp tones, and Madam Pomfrey pulled the curtain back and gestured for Hermione to enter.

'And don't let her tire you out with questions, Severus,' she added, 'you should be resting, remember.'

The curtain fell closed behind her. Snape was sitting up in bed, looking paler and more tired than usual but otherwise fine. An inkpot glistening with red ink stood open on the bedside table, and as Hermione watched, he dipped a black quill in it and wrote what looked suspiciously like a zero on a homework essay, before setting the pile of marking to one side. Only then did he look up, and his eyes widened slightly in surprise as he noticed who was standing there. He raised an eyebrow.

'Miss Granger,' he remarked, frowning slightly. 'I assume this has something to do with last night's… occurrences?'

Hermione sensed the point of no return approaching rapidly. Either she shook her head and made up some Potions problem, keeping silent about Draco and losing whatever help Snape might have been able to give him, or she admitted that it was and risked betraying Draco's trust in her. She took a breath and opened her mouth, not sure what was going to come out of it.

'Partially about last night, yes.'

Snape closed his eyes, while Hermione tried to conquer the twinges of guilt which were curling through her stomach like a Devil's Snare. 'If you are here either to express pity or to talk about Potter's childish and unnecessary reaction to the vision,' he remarked in his cold drawl, 'then I have far better things to do with my time, and I suggest you leave.'

'And if it's neither?' Hermione asked, fighting the impulse to defend Harry; she couldn't infuriate Snape by arguing, not now. Though she was surprised that he'd thought it might be her reason for coming; she hadn't spotted it, though she supposed it was a fairly obvious assumption.

Snape gave her a long, calculating look, then indicated the chair which stood by the side of the bed, and Hermione quickly crossed the floor and sat in it, hands in her lap, feeling decidedly tense. Even resting in a hospital bed and half-buried in fluffy white pillows and crisp blankets, Snape was no less intimidating.

'It's about Draco Malfoy,' she found herself saying, and mentally apologised for what she was about to do. _I'm sorry. I'm just trying to help you. It will help, and it's necessary, but I'm sorry all the same._

'About Draco Malfoy, and connected to last night's events,' Snape repeated, his voice flat. 'Gryffindors are always so quick to blame, are they not? Allow me to guess: Potter believed he saw Malfoy among the Death Eaters in the graveyard?' He didn't allow her any time to answer. 'You may assure your friends that Draco Malfoy is not a Death Eater. Now kindly permit me to return to my marking, Miss Granger; I have an entire class of second-years who have spectacularly failed their homework.' And with that, he picked up his quill again and began to mark another essay.

Hermione simply stared at him. He was in a particularly foul mood, and with reason, but that was no excuse…

'Harry didn't recognise anyone in the graveyard but you and Voldemort,' she cut in firmly. 'He doesn't even know I'm here. And you don't have to lie, because I already know Draco is a Death Eater. And I know he was one of the ones who… who tortured you last night.'

Snape abandoned his marking again; his head snapping upwards sharply, his cold face filled with utter fury. 'What misbegotten mixture of lies and rumour led you to bring that _nonsense_ to my ears?' he asked, his voice spitting acid, but Hermione remained calm. She knew that Snape was lying to protect Draco – which relieved her; it meant he was clearly on Draco's side – and that meant he was probably more afraid of her discovering the truth and spreading it throughout the school than he was actually angry.

'The one that came from Draco's own lips,' she replied firmly, and quickly explained. 'We're acting together in the play, and I saw his Mark one rehearsal, and we've kind of become friends. And I know he was one of the ones who tortured you because he told my himself last night.'

Snape, cold and untrusting as always, had merely gone a shade paler and raised an eyebrow. 'Why would he tell you?' he demanded.

'I'm not entirely sure,' Hermione admitted, giving a small shrug. 'Because I'm the only one who knows? He doesn't want to be a Death Eater.' She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. 'I don't think he has anyone else to tell. And I want to help him.' Hermione glanced up at an incredulous Snape, then back down to the floor, and closed her eyes tightly.

'And he's going mad.'

Hermione kept her eyes closed while she waited for Snape to reply. She felt unaccountable nervous, because she was telling Draco's secret, and because while she knew that Snape would help Draco she didn't know exactly what his reaction would be.

'Mad?' came the response at last; Snape's tone was cool again with a hint of something more urgent, and Hermione let out a breath. 'In what way?'

'It's the guilt, I think,' Hermione replied, spreading her hands wide on her lap and studying them, her fingers appearing oddly thin, slight. 'Of… of torturing people. Killing them. He keeps… He wouldn't believe me when I said you weren't dead, last night. And I helped him wash the blood off but he kept saying it was still there, it wouldn't go away… Like Macbeth. Once he thought he'd killed me and I was a ghost.' She twisted her hands around each other, swallowing. 'I'm worried about him,' she found herself admitting to the silence.

Snape took a long time to reply, and when he did his tone was distracted, vague. 'There is a lot to worry about,' he said, and she glanced upwards to see Snape staring in the vague direction of the curtain, frowning in thought.

The curtain was pulled back abruptly, and the familiar face of Madam Pomfrey appeared. 'Ten minutes up,' she said firmly. 'Come on, Miss Granger, Professor Snape needs to rest.'

Hermione glanced to the bed, where Snape nodded, his expression once more perfectly normal. It had to be, she guessed, in front of Madam Pomfrey. 'Indeed, Poppy. Thank you for coming to see me, Miss Granger, I shall consider your information most carefully,' he said, nodding and returning to the second-year essays. Hermione got to her feet.

'Thank you,' Professor,' she said formally, and allowed herself to be hustled out of the Hospital Wing by Madam Pomfrey. Hermione felt incredibly reassured.

* * *

**A/N: **I am now going to be boring and ask the same question I asked in Fallen: what do you think about me starting a forum? What kind of forum would you prefer – Harry Potter, writing-based, something else? Contest ideas? What kind of things would you want to do? Discussions? Basically throw ideas at me. Name suggestions are also desired!

Review!


	16. Act Four, Scene Four

Macbeth: Act Four, Scene Four

**Disclaimer: **Did I ever mention I don't own Harry Potter? Or Macbeth? Yeah, I still don't. But I have a birthday coming up! You never know…

**Thanks for 774 reviews goes to:** hidden relevance, LittleGreenPerson, cuznhottie, Marti Is So Cool, Lisi, samhaincat, DracoDraconis, Kou Shun'u, Nikki, Pho3niX, Stoneage Woman, RedWitch1, elektra30, Artic Demon, Mjade-1, brettley, langocska, PsYcHoJo, KawaiiRyu, Janie Granger, NotreDamegirlie (x2), willowfairy, Madam Midnight, Plaidly Lush, The Dragon Sorceress, mswyrr, Catelina, Laicamiel, Anna, sandrine, insanemaniac, Ladelle, sugar n spice 522, ablakevh, Sever13, Munching Munchkin Management, ToOtHpIcK, BouncingDelta88, Dreaming One, Ryu-Hitori-Lenore-Evans, Highlandcoo, Genevieve Jones, TsuirakuMitsukai, FromHereToThere, Satan's Advocate (x2), hermione3sx, citcat299, Karma Chameleon, Tayz, stellarr, heavengurl899, Rebecca15, heart of glass x.

**A/N: **Thanks for the reviews! And, of course, the suggestions and ideas about the forum, which is nearing the end of the planning stage and will be created as soon as I have the time. I'm looking forward to it, especially to getting the chance to talk to some of you properly. It's going to be based on Harry Potter/writing, and it'll hopefully be a lot of fun…

Thanks for help with details of costume, stage etc. go to Hannah, Simrun and Syco. (You might spot Hannah in this chapter; I stole her name when I needed one. She has, by the way, taken over the hairstyling, as well as helping with costume and being an invaluable and frequently hilarious beta, along with Simrun and Lou. I could never have written this half so well without the support of a lot of dedicated friends!)

Oh, and don't forget that voting is still on at Dangerous Liaisons, where both Macbeth and Cursed have been nominated. Macbeth's also been nominated at another site, the link to which shall be on my profile shortly.

Anyway, with that, onto the chapter. Enjoy!

* * *

_  
Draco,_

_Do you want to meet tonight for a practice? We missed the one we'd arranged yesterday, and the performances are coming up soon, so we should probably meet. I'll be in our usual place at eight. Owl me back._

_Hermione._

_

* * *

__  
Draco,_

_Why are you avoiding me? If I did something wrong the other night – I don't know what, said something which hurt you or embarrassed you – then I really am sorry; I was only trying to help you. And if you're worried what I think of you, I'm not angry. I don't think I could have done any different, in your place._

_I can't say any of the other reasons I think you could be avoiding me in a letter, but I apologise for them too, if it's something I did wrong. You aren't going to solve anything by avoiding me, you know. Will you meet me? At lunch, I'll be in the library. Usual place._

_Hermione_

* * *

He didn't meet her at lunch, just as he hadn't met her at eight o'clock the day before, and Hermione was starting to get worried. 

She'd been watching him at breakfast that morning, when the school owl had carried the second of the letters too him. He'd looked up from his breakfast, stared at the letter as though he expected it to explode in his face, then slowly opened it and read, automatically hiding the contents from anyone who might be reading over his shoulder.

His face had been fixed in a smooth blank mask as he scanned the lines, an expression which had infuriated Hermione for no identifiable reason. She wanted to know what he was feeling, what he thought, and his expression was a closed book. One written in some obscure language lost for millennia and encoded with every method of encryption known to Muggles and magic. And then burned for good measure, Hermione thought wryly.

When he finished reading, he had screwed the parchment into a ball with one crisp movement of his fist, then stuffed it into a pocket and continued eating. Not once had he glanced towards her.

He'd avoided her in the corridors too, with alarming dedication. It wasn't as though he'd simply slip into a side corridor when he saw her coming; he was simply _never there_. And she knew; she'd been watching for him, intently. He had to know her timetable, Hermione realised, because otherwise how could he avoid her so completely? Even when they had the same lessons, they were never in the corridor at the same time, however much she contrived to catch up with him.

Anyway, he would have to face her at some point today. There was a big meeting that day, for the whole cast, to discuss things like the stage design, the costume, and lighting. They already knew what they needed to – what props they'd have, where their entrances and exits were, that kind of thing – but Hermione was looking forward to seeing the details. And to attempting to catch Draco at the end of it.

A few hours after that, they had a proper rehearsal with the directors, and he couldn't skip that meeting, could he? Or escape from her afterwards, not when it was just the two of them leaving. One way or another, she'd find out why he was avoiding her.

* * *

The noise of her and Harry's footsteps, in perfect time, was the only sound. The corridors were deserted, and even though this was quite easily explained by the fact that it was Sunday afternoon, Hermione found it no less eerie. 

Harry hadn't been very talkative the past few days, which was also easily explained but no less worrying. And she didn't think he'd been sleeping very well, partly because he was paler than usual and looked exhausted, with the faint tracings of faded blue under his eyes, and partly because she'd asked Ron to keep an eye on him and he'd told her Harry wasn't sleeping well. Ron was just as worried as she was, though he didn't show it as much, being Ron.

At least he wasn't going mad. Touch wood.

The constant _one-two one-two_ beat of their footsteps was becoming as oppressive as the silent emptiness of the corridors, and they weren't even halfway there yet. And however much she tried to break the rhythm, her feet kept slipping back into it. Hermione took a breath and disrupted it by starting a conversation instead.

'Are you excited about the meeting?' she asked cheerfully. 'I'm quite looking forward to hearing what they're going to do with the set, Megan said something about it in one of our rehearsals and she was practically dancing with delight. And you know how stressed she is normally.'

Beside her, Harry gave a shrug as they turned the corner into another corridor. 'Yeah, I guess,' he said, noncommittally.

Unperturbed, Hermione continued. 'I don't know anything about the costume, except that they aren't making the men wear tights. Some of the fifth-years demanded to know. Stan and Ruth were both laughing about it for ages.'

'That's good.'

Hermione waited for a while to see if anything else would be forthcoming, and when nothing was, she continued, feeling slightly desperate. 'Have you learnt your lines?'

Harry simply nodded, his eyes staying fixed on the floor, and Hermione couldn't think of anything else to say. And she knew that whatever she said, he wouldn't listen, so really, what was the use?

There had to be something she could say to help. Something she could do, perhaps. Trying to get him to talk about other things wasn't working; perhaps if she…

'Hermione?'

The interruption startled her; she hadn't been expecting Harry to speak. Glancing upwards, she saw Harry was looking up at her, a faint half-smile on his face. 'Stop worrying,' he told her firmly. 'I'll be fine, I'm just a little distracted.'

'That's what you always say,' she pointed out, but couldn't help but feel relieved. The mere fact that Harry had been shaken out of his distraction, even by her worrying, made her feel better.

'Well, I always _do_ end up fine. In the end,' Harry pointed out stubbornly. 'Just stop worrying about me. See, I'm better already. Now, what were you saying about the set?'

Hermione smiled back and began to share the rumours she'd heard, feeling slightly relieved that he'd at least cheered up a little. Though she had no doubt that this wouldn't be permanent.

Oh well. Best to make the most of it while it lasted.

* * *

The meeting had been underway for an hour and was reaching the boring parts; at least half the cast had given up listening to Ruth and Megan chattering away and were staring at the miniature model of the stage that sat in the middle of the table. 

That had been the big excitement of the meeting; the stage. The design was fairly simple, with a narrow balcony around the top – mainly for witch scenes, Olivia had explained – and five doors arranged around the bottom, with everything in an eerie black. But the real excitement had been the rest of the design; on all three sides of the stage, from just underneath the balcony ledge, there would be water running down the walls. With silencing charms, obviously, so the noise of it didn't obstruct what the actors were saying. The stage would be lit by groups of floating candles, the flames of which glistened off the water; the effect was eerie.

Hermione watched as Adrian, glancing sideways to ensure Megan wasn't paying any attention to him, muttered a spell in the direction of the model. The flames of the miniature candles grew twice as large, changing to a deep crimson, reflecting off the walls and making the water look almost like blood. She shivered.

Draco was there, of course, but he was sitting about as far away from her as he could get, diagonally opposite across the long table. Hermione had been watching him surreptitiously. He looked the same as always; same cool stare, same composed expression, guarded, not giving anything away. His chin was tilted upwards slightly more than most peoples' were, a habit she'd noticed in him before. He looked exactly as he always did, except for the fact that he was pretending she didn't exist.

He'd noticed she was looking at him. Hermione had seen him glance up, the briefest flicker of an eye before he forced his eyes away from her. He was watching Megan talk, now, with a rapt expression which Hermione would bet a lot of money was utterly false.

Listening to Megan with one ear – after all, she was supposed to be listening, and Megan might say something important – Hermione leant back in her chair and watched Draco. If she kept staring at him long enough, he might give in…

An appreciative murmur running round the table told her that Adrian had done something else with the lighting, and from the corner of her eye she could see that the candles had turned a heavenly sky blue. She kept her attention firmly fixed on Draco. His eyes were flicking round the room, now, between Megan and the other directors and Blaise, who was sitting beside him. He knew she was watching him, and…

'Hannah Baker, one of the Ravenclaw seventh-years, has very kindly agreed – _expelliarmus!_ – to do the hairstyling for us,' Megan said, deftly catching Adrian's wand in her left hand and tucking it away without even looking, a decided smirk touching her lips. Adrian, and a large part of the cast, looked fairly annoyed. 'For the women, we're thinking…'

Hermione listened while Megan talked about braids and crowns and ribbons, and while a few of the other girls put their hands up to ask questions or make suggestions, but she wasn't particularly interested in the hairstyling. Draco was more interested; he looked, by now, distinctly uncomfortable, leaning forward over the table, fidgeting nervously, running delicate fingers through his hair. He kept glancing towards her too, only brief flickers, but Hermione was finding it hard to stop herself from grinning. It felt like a game, or like learning a new spell, even though it was more important than that. If she could get him to give in, perhaps he'd stop ignoring her.

Finally, reluctantly, he let his eyes meet hers, glaring as viciously as he could manage. He reminded Hermione of one of the angered Greek gods; Apollo, perhaps, 'Stop it,' he mouthed at her.

'Stop ignoring me,' she mouthed back, and as if in defiance, his head instantly snapped away. She was certain she saw him shiver, although it was hard to see.

He didn't look back again.

Megan finished discussing hairstyles, then glanced at her watch. 'And I suppose they'll have to be all for now,' she said, smiling at them all. 'You all know when your next rehearsals are? And don't forget, no more scripts, those of you that still need them!'

With that, the meeting broke up, dissolving into excited chatter about the upcoming production and the scraping of chairs. Hermione was one of the first on her feet, to the surprise of Harry who was sitting next to her; she had to try and catch Draco.

But he was sitting slightly closer to the door than she was, and the people on either side of her were getting up and blocking her way, and by the time she made it to the corridor he was gone.

* * *

'We fail!' Hermione said and laughed, then crossed the treacherous floor of the makeshift stage to Draco, hoping that this would be the final run-through. She had to talk to him. 'But screw your courage to the sticking-place, and we'll not fail,' she told him, pitching her voice low and bloodthirsty. 

His acting was perfect as ever. The only thing that betrayed how he felt was a slight tension, unnoticeable unless you were standing as close as Hermione was, and the way his skin twitched as she reached to touch his jaw. Almost as if he didn't know whether to lean into the touch or jerk away from it.

'What cannot you and I perform upon the unguarded Duncan?' she asked, trailing her fingers down his skin lovingly to slip off his chin, leaving her hand hovering in mid air. Draco's skin was colder than usual, and tensed, but as smooth and perfect as polished stone. 'What not put upon his spongy officers, who shall bear the guilt of our great quell?'

Draco, whose eyes had been dancing with delight as her speech reached its murderous conclusion, laughed and caught her hand. His grasp was too tight, she noticed, then too loose, as if he were afraid to touch it. 'Bring forth men-children only,' he told her, raising her fingers and letting his lips brush softly over them. Only she noticed the way he flinched; she forced herself to keep smiling, to stay in role as Lady Macbeth and not react.

'For thy undaunted mettle should compose nothing but males,' he praised her, and she laughed as he continued, excited. 'Will it not be received, when we have mark'd with blood those sleepy two of his own chamber and used their very daggers, that they have done't?'

'Who dares receive it other,' she asked, letting her voice become gleeful, 'as we shall make our griefs and clamours _roar_ upon his death?'

Draco laughed a little again, eyes blazing with the mask of excitement he was wearing. Beneath them, if she looked carefully, Hermione could make out something else; but what she couldn't tell, except that it was mercurial and changed with every instant. He leant forward then, so she couldn't see his eyes any more, and kissed her forehead. His lips felt cool and dry, and pulled back a fraction of a second before they were supposed to.

'I am settled,' he said, looking her in the eye again, his voice oddly quiet, 'and bend up each corporal agent to this terrible feat.' He raised his free hand, brushed a strand of hair from her face. 'Away, and mock the time with fairest show: false face-' he gently touched her cheek- 'must hide what the false heart-' the fingers moved to rest just above her heart and she had to stop herself shivering at the feel of it- 'doth know.'

Together, they took a few slow steps, backwards from Hermione's perspective but forwards from his, until they had crossed the line on the desks that marked where the door was. Draco let go of her abruptly, dropping her hand and stepping sharply backwards, so that the sudden removal of his physical closeness felt like a loss. Hermione shook herself, gave Draco a long look, then turned her attention to the directors.

'That was brilliant,' Megan was saying, beaming widely at them and making a few notes on a piece of parchment. 'Keep practicing and the play will be utterly amazing.

'Do you want us to do it again?' Draco asked, in a tone which was unfailingly polite but still, implicitly, sounded like _'Can I go now?'_

'I think that's enough for today,' Ruth said, smiling at them. 'You're both doing amazingly.'

Draco nodded and leapt down from the platform with one elegant move, and was halfway to the door before Hermione could react. 'Wait!' she called out, jumping down after him – her ankle gave a twinge of protest – and chasing after him. She managed to reach the door at the same time as he did. 'I want to talk to you.'

He didn't meet her eyes. 'Later,' he said, his voice curt and cold. He reached for the door handle, but Hermione was well past compromise; he didn't manage to get it more than an inch open before she slammed it shut. 'Now.'

Draco did look at her then, for one short, sharp glance. 'Let me past,' he hissed. 'I'm not talking to you now. _Mudlood_,' he added, and the vicious, furious tone to his voice startled and hurt her more than the swear word ever could.

'Tell me what's wrong, then,' she replied, half-leaning against the door in an effort to keep it shut. 'I don't know why you're so angry at me, Draco, but I swear I didn't do anything intentionally…'

'Is everything alright over there?' came a voice from the directors; Stan's. Hermione glanced over her shoulder to realise that all five of them were watching with varying degrees of curiosity and alarm.

Beside her, she felt Draco stop trying to open the door. 'Perfectly,' he assured them, giving the directors a wide smile, then while Hermione was distracted, he opened the door and sped out through it.

Muttering a curse, she followed him, managing to catch hold of his sleeve halfway down the corridor. He stopped, but didn't turn to look at her. 'Let _go_,' he spat, trying to tug his arm out of her grasp, but she held on determinedly.

'Not until we've talked,' she replied. 'I want to know why you're avoiding me, and I don't much care whether you tell me in private or in the middle of a public corridor, but you aren't getting away from me without saying. You can't avoid me forever, Draco.'

He didn't reply to that, but she could see his tension in the line of his shoulders, the dip of his head, the way one of his hands was curled sinuously into a fist by his side. She waited while he stood in silence, feeling the heady heat of determination simmering inside her; she wasn't going to give in, not now, not when she could finally force Draco to listen to her, to talk to her…

The sound of muffled conversation from the practice room alerted her to the fact that the directors were coming; she spun, not letting go of Draco's arm, and opened the door to the Muggle Studies store room with a flick of her wand and a muttered, 'Alohamora.'

'Inside,' she ordered quickly, giving Draco a piercing glare, and after a moment's hesitation he stalked slowly inside. She followed, closing the door behind her.

The room was exactly the same as it was a few days before, but this Draco was nothing like the anxious, confiding boy who'd sat on top of a dusty television and allowed her to comfort him. He stalked through the dangerously stacked piles of Muggle objects, swirls of dust billowing in his wake, and turned sharply to face her, folding his arms and raising his head imperiously.

'What do you want, Granger?' he asked, sharply.

Hermione stared back at him firmly, refusing to back down. 'I want to know why you're avoiding me,' she stated, clearly and simply.

He sneered in return, which surprised her; she'd seen him sneer plenty of times before, of course, but not recently; never in the past few weeks. Not since they'd started acting together. Belatedly, she realised that Draco avoiding her and being so - so like his _old self_ – without telling her what she'd done wrong hurt her. As much as if Harry had suddenly started acting the same, or Ron.

Had she really come to care about him that much? Yes. Yes, she had.

Hermione sat down on the television and wiped a bit of dust off a stack of old videos that stood beside it. 'I just want to know why you're doing this,' she continued, her voice far quieter.

'I should never have gone near you in the first place.' His voice was low and quiet and felt like daggers; she winced to hear it. 'I should never have forgotten you were a Mudblood, an… an unnatural freak!'

His words hung as heavy as the dust in the air, and she slowly turned her face to him, surprised to find her vision slightly blurred. Tears. 'Is that what you really think?' she asked.

'Yes,' he said, without hesitation. 'I told you before. Mudbloods are animals. Worse than animals. Mutations. Aberrations. You're unnatural.' His voice was utterly flat, deadpan.

Watching him, hearing him, her hands curled into fists, nails stabbing her palm. She had to fight to open her eyes, open them and actually look back at him, because they'd screwed themselves tightly shut. Her breathing rasped. 'You didn't care about that before,' she whispered.

'I had to put my revulsion aside for the sake of the play,' he said, his tone artic.

'Revulsion? You never reviled me,' she said, feeling the horrible slow leaden choke of something darker than misery clutch at her heart. 'Or did you forget that when you fell asleep on my bed the other night?'

He flinched, closing his eyes briefly. 'Granger…'

'Did you forget that Mudbloods were freaks and mutation when you went insane because you'd tortured them, killed them?' she continued, with the dim feeling that even if she'd wanted to stop, she couldn't: the words came in an unstoppable torrent from some place inside her that was hurt red raw. 'Remember it, Draco. Remember the screams, and the blood, and the way the corpses looked when you'd killed them and _then_ tell me Mudbloods aren't human!'

For one long, fury-filled moment, she could feel all the pain and hurt and absolute anger inside her, could feel it carving a glare in her eyes and an expression of rage on her face as she watched Draco, and then she realised that the pale boy's arms weren't crossed in defiance any more, but wrapped loosely around himself for comfort, and his eyes were closed and he was shaking.

She shouldn't have done that, even if she was angry, even if she was hurt; she shouldn't have pushed his madness and guilt out. Shouldn't have used it against him. No.

'Draco?' she tried tentatively, into the silence. 'Draco, I… I'm sorry, I didn't mean…'

She trailed off. Draco was taking deep gulping breaths, and though she wasn't sure whether he'd accept it well, she stood, hesitantly, and crossed the room to him, reaching out and putting a comforting hand on his back. For a moment he let it rest there; she could feel the warmth of his skin through the robes, then he jerked violently away.

'Don't touch me!' he spat, stumbling backwards away from her and tripping on a fallen CD case; he collapsed onto a pile of old books and sat there, shivering, eyes open and staring at nothing.

'Draco?' Anxiously, she crouched by his side, not wanting to touch him in case she upset him more but not knowing what else to do. 'Draco, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say that. Please. Don't go insane again. Focus, you're here with me, it's okay…'

He shook his head, rocking back and forth on the pile of books. 'No,' he whispered. 'Mudbloods are horrible, foul, disgusting, I'm supposed to hate them. Please don't die. Don't make me kill anyone. These deeds must not be thought after these ways; so, it will make us mad. And there must be something wrong with me, if it makes me mad, because it's not like they're proper people, only Mudbloods, and Muggles and half-bloods, only filthy animals who look like people but they look _so much_ like people, they talk and they laugh and they scream like people and I can't remember where the line is anymore, oh, _help_ me…'

'Draco, don't do this again.' Hermione whispered, unable to stop herself from reaching for his hand. He didn't start away; rather he moved his head, slowly, and looked down at her with a glassy, broken smile.

'Hermione,' he said. 'Missed you. Shouldn't have missed you, shouldn't have wanted to see you, shouldn't even have gone to your room. Mudblood, _filthy_ Mudblood, but… but you're the only one who cares, aren't you. The only one…' His eyes closed, and Hermione would have sworn that he was crying if his face hadn't stayed completely dry.

'That's why you were avoiding me?' she asked when she felt the silence had gone on too long. 'Because I'm – I'm Muggleborn?' It made a horrid kind of sense; Draco had been brought up prejudiced, taught from the cradle to hate Muggleborns, and he must have forgotten or conveniently ignored that hatred to become… well, friends, for lack of a better word. Perhaps waking up in her bed had been too sharp a reminder of who she was and just how far they'd come as far as friendship went.

Another thing he'd said struck her suddenly. 'You missed me? You wanted to see me?'

He nodded silently, and shifted his hand under hers, taking hold of it and interlacing her fingers with his. 'Yes,' he whispered. 'Yes.'

His eyes still tightly closed, he raised his hand to her mouth, brushing impossibly gentle lips across it in a gesture which made her shiver, then turned the hand against his shoulder, cradling it.

And with a sudden flash of insight, Hermione knew. He hadn't started to avoid her because of the shock of realising he was _friends_ with a Muggleborn.

Somewhere in the hours of practice, the tension, the fights, the gentle help and comfort – who else did he have to help him? – somewhere, somehow, he'd fallen in love.

**

* * *

****  
A/N: **I don't have anything important to ask you this chapter, so I'm going for something a little fun. This is a game I like to call The Game Of Ships, being decidedly unimaginative when it comes to naming things… Basically, you invent a ship. Anyone, any and any work of fiction is fair game; Dumbledore/Willy Wonka, Faustus/Mephistopheles, Hermione/Artemis Fowl… We tend to do it a lot in English Lit, where one of the two groups is firmly convinced Hamlet fancies his mother and the other (mine) seems convinced to various degrees that all the boys are gay. 

How did I get onto this? Ah, yes. Review, and invent a ship when you do. Amuse me, I have to spend all evening with an aged aunt, so am going to need amusement. Review!


	17. Act Four, Scene Five

Macbeth: Act Four, Scene Five

**Disclaimer: **How far do writers own their stories? Perhaps, from the stories' point of view, they own the writers. In which case, Shakespeare is owned by Macbeth, and JKRowling is owned by Harry Potter.

**Thanks for 861 reviews goes to:** heartofglass, RedWitch1, Hermy-luvs-Draco, Highlandcoo, cuznhottie, Marti Is So Cool, Lisi, Bubbles, hidden relevance, willowfairy, Nathonea, Genevieve Jones, Dreaming One, Flavagurl, leavsfan4eva, langocska, draconas, samhaincat, Jewell, DracoDraconis, Tayz, Silvestria, mswyrr, Kou Shun'u, Satan's Advocate, logicube, yourGUN-myhead, BouncingDelta88, elektra30, Stoneage Woman, insanemaniac, Nikki, Sever13, Alexi Lupin, G, Catelina, transcendent-sin, Janie Granger, brettley, Carpetfibres, heart of glass x (x2), PsychoJo, ToOtHpIcK, Opalfire, heavengurl899, red briar rose, Chiinoyami-chan, sugar n spice 522, Searching for Stars, Icy Stormz, Ickis Krumm, Brinneybit, Calixte Ammonian, h0ll0ws0ng, AerinBrown, Madam Midnight, lulu hendrix, Plaidly Lush, alexia75, CocoaFlavourPunk, LittleGreenPerson, Bo-Jay, Beloved-Stranger, Shaney Of Goldenlake, pensive puddles, booklover (x2), FromHereToThere, Simrun, Rachel, Nik Nak, nady (x5), KawaiiRyu, Nymphadora Tonks the 2nd, Fuchs-chan, dfd, Bella, kazhdu, FuschiaNicole, Jessica (x2), thesnowcrane.

**A/N: **Yes. Lou utterly forbade me from doing any Fallen for the next month (well, three weeks now). And well, yes, I do _need_ a break. I know some people thought I was sacrificing Fallen for the sake of Macbeth; to make a long ramble short, no. It's simply that, well, after writing a fic for over a year, and spending weeks dealing with the plot details and difficulties (it is a flipping complicated story) and so on, you get… well, worn out. Tired. In a rut. And… yeah, time off is necessary to recharge, so to speak. Don't worry; I'll be back soon. Note about last week's question. Never play that game with the aforementioned evil Lou. She is far too good at it, reducing my brain to mush with five minutes of pairings, culminating in a devastatingly timed _Vetinari/Lucius_, which reduced me to incoherency and sent me running for the 75 stuff dad keeps hidden in his secret drawer to drug myself into numbed bliss. (Alright, alright. It's chocolate. 75 cocoa content dark chocolate. Fooled you, didn't I?) (I also loved your suggestions, especially Hermione/Faustus, Ophelia/Draco, and AliceInWonderland/Draco!)

Oh, and in response to a review: I'd personally try anything but defending Lady Macbeth (That would be impossible.) Defending Macbeth would be most interesting, though prosecuting either of them would be easiest.)

In other and more positive news… remember that audition I had, ages ago, for the Pirate Queens thing? Where you do workshops with the writer and then she goes away, writes it, and you get to be in it next year? The one I asked people to help me think of an object for? And I didn't get in? Guess what… someone dropped out. And they asked me to take her place! Of course, they're over halfway through the workshops now, but hell, it's still brilliant.

In even more news of a drama-related bent, and even Potter-related bent… One of my friends and readers of this fic, Silvestria (a long-standing HHr shipper. We'll convert her!) is both a rabid Latin and Greek nut and a rabid Pottermaniac. This can lead to only one end. Yes. In assembly, on the fateful twenty second of March (beware the… er… ten days to the Kalens of April! Doesn't have the same ring, does it?) we will be performing, in front of the whole school, a version of the final dramatic events of the first Harry Potter book.

In Latin.

I kid you not. I'm playing Hermione, as I have both the hair for it and the initials HG. I shall tell you more afterwards, from my cave in Siberia where I shall be hiding from the ridicule of the entire student body.

And on that note, onto the chapter. In apology for the lateness and lack of Fallen, my Muse seemed to decide that making the chapter _half as long again_ as the average chapter length was a good idea. Apparently making the ANs ridiculously long as well was also a good idea… Onto the chapter. Enjoy!

* * *

Hermione first thought was: _of course_.

It made _sense_, in a horrible twisted way which made her stomach grow cold. For someone who'd been taught from birth, as Draco surely must have been, that everyone who wasn't a Pureblooded wizard or witch was no more than an animal – animals at best, freaks of nature at worst. For someone like that to grow up and start killing Muggles and Muggleborns, as his creed told him he ought to, and then to find himself driven to such guilt by the act that it started to warp his sanity, to send him mad…

And then to have no one to turn to except for one of these 'freaks', these 'aberrations', who for some reason – Hermione herself couldn't remember why and didn't much care – was worried and wanted to help him. And then – yes, she _remembered_ it happening, the hints she hadn't picked up on at the time. The way he'd asked her to come here, a few days or a lifetime ago, and told her there was a meeting that night and he was scared. The way he'd come to her room, even half-mad, even soaked in blood, straight to her room and her bed to find comfort and warmth and a hand to clean the blood and guilt away. Just the way he smiled, the way he laughed… why hadn't she _noticed_?

And then to fall in love. No wonder he'd been avoiding her.

Draco let out a small, hitched half-sob of pain, which dragged Hermione back from her amazement to reality. This wasn't the time for thinking about it; Draco… Draco needed her help. Love – was it really? – and all the associated questions could wait.

Feeling a little braver now, she didn't resist her impulse to reach out and rest a hand on his shoulder. 'It's alright,' she whispered, her voice seeming to float, like the dust, in the air. 'Don't get upset about it. It's over now. You're not there any more, it's all in the past, you're here. Here with me. And it's okay.'

Hermione was well aware that it wasn't okay, and it wasn't over, but what else could she say?

Draco shook his head, her hand moving with his cheek – he still hadn't moved it from his face. 'There'll be another meeting,' he said, his voice hoarse. 'And another and another. And the screams, and the blood. With twenty trenched gashes on his head, or the Cruciatius, or you can slit a seam down the spine and use curses to slowly turn them inside-out. We are yet but young in deed.' He flinched, suddenly, and Hermione wished she didn't have to ask herself whether he'd cast that curse or seen it or only imagined it. She was frightened of the answer.

Instead, she slowly slipped her arm further around him, her palm resting between his shoulder blades. He bent his head forward slightly, closing his eyes, and sighed.

'There's something wrong with me,' he whispered mournfully. 'Making me go mad. It _hurts_.'

Hermione shook her head, although she knew he couldn't see her. 'No,' she told him firmly. 'There's nothing wrong with you, other than the…' Her fingers briefly brushed the back of his head, his impossibly soft hair, before settling on his back again. 'And apart from… apart from thinking Muggles aren't human. And that's not _your_ fault, it's what your parents taught you, and you couldn't help that.'

Draco shook his head, an amused twist of a smile coming to his lips, eyes still closed, rocking backward and forwards slightly. 'No, no, no,' he muttered. 'That's not wrong. That's right. I'm wrong, because…' His eyes opened, and Hermione was relieved to see a slightly saner light in them. He stopped rocking, looking lost, sickened. 'Because I can't kill them. Because I feel guilty about it.'

Hermione's stomach twisted sharply, nauseous, and she opened her mouth to interrupt. But Draco kept talking, his voice a dull monotone. 'Because it… it hurts. To kill them. And it shouldn't hurt, because they're just animals, vermin. It's meant to be like a sport. I'm meant to enjoy it. It's meant to be fun, the killing and torturing, because they're just animals really and they don't matter, but I can't… I _can't_…' A deep shiver ran through him; he blinked briefly, and when he opened his eyes he seemed to have come back to himself.

Draco looked around, seeming startled and then angry, and dropped her hand from his cheek as though it were poisonous, lethal. 'What are you _doing_?' he spat, as though he hadn't noticed her there, and leapt up suddenly as though her hand on his back had turned red-hot. 'Don't touch me, Mudblood,' he hissed, but his face was so pale and his eyes so wide and frightened that it didn't feel like an insult. It felt like a last desperate defence thrown up against an invading force, a flimsy wall against a battering ram or the last attempt at dignity of a dying man, and Hermione felt something inside her heart twist in a painful, hurting sympathy.

'Draco-' she began, but he turned sharply and left, walking just short of a run for the door and slamming it behind him, a reverberating clash which shook heaps of dust into the air to swirl in the silent dim light.

Hermione's hands dropped to her lap, and she stared after him in despair. What could she do? Following him would do no good, but she found herself getting to her feet anyway, twisting her way through the boxes towards the door. She'd just make him angrier, but she couldn't just let him leave, not like that.

She was too late to see which way he went, so chose left on impulse. It led to the Great Hall, anyway, so it was most likely…

'Miss Granger?'

Snape's voice, cool and slightly impatient as always, caused her to stop suddenly, at first nervous, then relieved.

'You're out of the Hospital Wing?'

Even as she asked it, she wished she hadn't spoken; he was sneering at her and she took a nervous step back. He had been amiable enough when she'd told him about Draco; what had she done to make him act so… so coldly? Had he seen Draco? Did he think she'd done that intentionally?

'Indeed, Miss Granger,' he remarked coldly. 'And what do I find upon leaving? Deliberate provocation of a fellow student? Entering the Muggle Studies storeroom without a teacher's permission?'

You didn't need permission to enter storerooms; not unless it was something dangerous, like Snape's rarer Potion ingredients or some of Hagrid's creatures. And as for provocation… 'Do… do you mean Draco? Professor, I… I thought I explained… he…'

A raised eyebrow brought her to silence. Surely Snape must know she wouldn't hurt Draco willingly…

'Detention, Miss Granger,' he said with a cruel sneer, and Hermione had to stop herself from gaping in shock. Detention? What had she done that warranted _detention_?

'Professor,' she gabbled, a dazed and horrified attempt to explain, 'I really don't understand, I didn't-'

'Spare me your excuses, Miss Granger,' Snape said, mock-wearily, 'I have an important meeting to attend. Be at my office at five o'clock. It is imperative you are _on time_.'

He gave her a brief frown and stalked off, heading quickly in the direction of Dumbledore's office, leaving Hermione to gape after him at the unfairness of her undeserved detention. Was it something to do with Draco? Was Snape angry with her for telling? No, he would have been angry when she told him and he hadn't shown any sign of it, so what…

She forced herself to take a deep breath. There were, after all, far more important things to worry about than Snape. A detention was vindictive, and underserved, and utterly confusing, but she had other more important things to worry about. More pressing things.

Draco Malfoy loved her.

* * *

It was flattering, in an odd kind of way, Hermione reflected half an hour later as she sat in the common room. An odd way which made her feel somehow guilty. It was a frivolous feeling; she was meant to be trying to work out what to do, not feeling flattered by a situation which could potentially make everything worse.

But she did feel flattered. Hermione was well aware that she wasn't particularly pretty. She brushed her hand through her hair, acutely aware of her shortcomings; her hair was too frizzy and her face too plain, although her teeth were shortened now. She was passable, mediocre; there were a few minor bad points and a few minor good points. Nothing _special_. Apart from Krum, and a few rumours about crushes which had come to nothing, she had never had much attention of that kind. She hadn't particularly wanted any, either.

Until now.

Hermione sipped her drink, a wizarding variation on tea which left a lovely liquorice aftertaste, and frowned. It was flattering; that couldn't be denied. Even if it made things harder, even if Draco was insane, even if Draco still thought she was some freak of nature. It still felt _nice_, and there was a warm, glowing feeling at the bottom of her stomach which wasn't entirely due to the tea. A happy feeling, a feeling like… she didn't know, and turned her mind away from it.

To be _liked_. And she knew it was more than a friendly kind of liking; she was sure that it was _more_, as well. His expression, the way he'd held her hand… and besides, he'd been friends with her before, to a degree, and that hadn't set him off. Waking up next to someone in a bed, wrapped in their blanket, holding their hand… She smiled at the memory of falling asleep beside him. That was the kind of thing that could have caused him to realise it was, perhaps, more than friendship which he felt. And that was the kind of realisation which would cause him to start avoiding her.

Because, of course, he'd been taught from birth that Hermione – not her specifically; Muggleborns and Muggles - weren't _human_. Animals at best. Freakish mutants to be feared and loathed at worst. Realising he was in love with one of them, with _her_…

Hermione couldn't imagine it. It must be impossible, to like and hate and love and fear and be disgusted by someone all at once. The ultimate case of conflicting emotions, compounded by insanity and guilt.

What else could he do but avoid her?

The first question was, of course, how to help. And the best thing to do was to try and help him see past the prejudice, to understand – but how? You couldn't argue with prejudice. Logic wouldn't work. Prejudices like Draco's ran deeper than that, deep into the bone, into the heart, so that they were almost gut instincts, and they couldn't be argued with. Words would not work, and neither his feelings for her – she felt herself flushing – or his guilt had helped.

He needed to see, to understand and accept, what his conscience and his heart were telling him; that the people he was told to murder and torture were just that – _people_. And that the Muggleborn he liked – Hermione couldn't think _me_; it was too dangerous, too frightening – was a human being, and just as worthy of his affection as any of the Pureblood girls. More so, because she was the one who helped him, who cared.

But that wasn't something Hermione could help with. The change had to be from the inside, not the outside, and with someone like Draco it could take years to for the rock-hard beliefs which his upbringing had been cemented firmly in his mind to be broken down.

Years might be too long.

Hermione knew that the real root of the problem the prejudice itself. Without it, she doubted he'd have joined the Death Eaters, not without a protest. Or have refused to go to Dumbledore for help, no matter how little good he thought his Headmaster could do.

Then there was the clash between beliefs and conscience. _There's something wrong with me_, he'd said, and the plaintive, lost words echoed in her mind as she sat by the fire, sipping her cooling tea. He thought that the guilt was something wrong, because of course he'd been brought up to believe that killing and torturing Muggles was not only fun but desirable; vermin control, protecting the Pureblood's world.

Hermione's hands wound tighter around her mug. She swore, if she ever got her hands on Draco's parents…

This was no time to go off on a tangent. Thinking that this guilt, this perfectly natural and moral outbreak of conscience, was something wrong like a disease or a twisted, evil, perverted force, thinking that there was something _wrong_ with you for feeling it… well, it wouldn't make the problem any easier, that was for certain.

She was avoiding thinking about the actual issue, wasn't she?

Hermione closed her eyes, breathing in sharply. She was, and she knew it. She hadn't come here to think about what was causing Draco's insanity; she'd thought about that enough before.

The issue was that Draco… Draco _liked_ her. Loved, except that was somehow frightening in a way Hermione didn't really want to think about. And she had to decide what to do about _that_, not ponder on how Draco's prejudices were affecting his insanity.

The easiest option, and one she was sorely tempted to take, was simply ignoring the issue. He didn't _know_ she knew; he'd probably far rather she never did, and telling him that she had realised would only make things more difficult between them. It was going to be hard enough to persuade him to stop avoiding her already. Getting him to do it with this issue rearing itself between them would be near impossible.

For a brief, wild moment, the idea of confronting him about it, of somehow persuading him to give in to his feelings, of… but no, that was a wild flight of fancy. It would never work anyway.

Really, ignoring the issue was the best option. Nothing could ever come of his feelings anyway, not while he was half-mad with guilt.

Almost satisfied, except for a tiny tendril which nagged and doubted in her stomach, Hermione drank down the remnants of her tea, put the mug aside to be returned to the kitchens later, and turned to her Arithmancy homework. She put all thoughts of Draco and guilt and love out of her head.

* * *

'Miss Granger.'

It was five minutes to five: Hermione was early, having vowed that, if Snape was going to randomly and vindictively give her detention, she was going to do absolutely _nothing_ wrong during that time. If she did nothing wrong, he couldn't fault her on anything, and whatever bitterness he may have wanted to take out on her would remain bottled up. It was a form of rebellion, in a way.

'Professor Snape,' she replied, nodding politely. 'I'm here for detention.'

She ought to be angry with him, Hermione thought, but she wasn't angry so much as irritated. And perhaps a little betrayed, as well. She had, after all, told him about Draco, and that had been no easy decision to make. She had thought he would help – and he probably would, of course – but _why_ the detention?

There was no hint of a clue on Snape's face; he simply nodded, stood back from the door and gestured for her to enter, which she did with some hesitation. It wasn't the most reassuring of rooms. The walls were lined with various potions specimens in glass jars, the coloured potions making even perfectly ordinary things look bizarre and otherworldly. The effect was only emphasised by the curved glass of the jars which distorted the objects within. Hermione deeply suspected that he kept most of them for the sole purpose of terrifying those unfortunate students who were summoned here.

On the other hand, a fire glowed sullenly in the grate, the heat welcoming after her walk through the cold corridors and the reddish glow somehow comforting. And one wall was lined with books; the reassuring old leather-bound type which Hermione always found soothing. It wasn't, she reflected, as if there were no concessions to comfort.

She didn't have long to consider, though, because Snape was stalking across the room. 'I have a store of cauldrons in here,' he said, opening a door and revealing what should really be classed as a reasonably large cupboard. 'I require them all to be cleaned. Without magic.'

Hermione bit back a groan; cleaning cauldrons was her least favourite activity. Preparing Potions ingredients was at least educational, but what purpose did hand-cleaning cauldrons have? Besides being hard work, and frequently disgusting. The most horrible things could be found in the bottom of cauldrons. Neville swore he'd found a decomposing rat once, though Hermione was rather dubious about that claim. Sludge and slime and the remnants of diced livers, however, she was sure of.

Resigning herself to a horrible hour or two, she stepped forward into the small room, eyeing the cauldrons before her with wariness. Without warning, Snape swiftly closed the door behind her, plunging the tiny room into darkness at the same time that Hermione stumbled and fell, hard to the floor, just avoiding bashing her head on a cauldron.

Very quietly, blinking in the pitch darkness, she swore, pulling herself up to a sitting position and rubbing a rapidly bruising arm. Damn Snape, what did he think he was playing at? Giving her detention for no reason, in a bloody _cupboard_…

None of what he was doing made any _sense_. If she'd known why he was seemingly angry with her, she could do something, but he had nothing to be angry about. She had _helped_ him, for goodness' sake.

Coughing slightly – the room was decidedly dusty – Hermione reached for her wand. She might have to clean without magic, but she wasn't doing it without light as well. 'Lumos,' she muttered, and light flared from her wand tip, revealing dark, forbidding cauldrons, arrayed in rows around her, grey stone walls, and…

A glint of light.

Frowning, Hermione moved closer, peering to see what the light was shining off. It was lodged in a gap between two cauldrons, but she could clearly see it was a glass vial, filled with what was presumably a potion, a piece of parchment tied around the neck. She reached out for it, picked it up.

Well, that explained what she'd fallen over. Rubbing her knee, which she suspected was also going to bruise, Hermione flicked open the label. She had, after all, a long time in which to clean cauldrons.

Perlucidus Potion (The Spy's Potion)

The use of a small amount of Demiguise hair gives this potion the unusual property of making solid objects transparent, but only in one direction. For example, if applied to one side of a wall, anyone standing on that side of the wall will find that the wall appears invisible. If standing on the other side of the wall, however, said wall will still be visible. The potion has, therefore, been traditionally used by spies, hence the name.

_The potion should be applied by painting the rune _laguz_ on the solid object to be made transparent. Its effects last approximately fifteen hours._

Snape must have left it here by accident, Hermione reasoned; though what he'd been doing with it in here she hadn't a clue. She was half-temped to use it. After all, Snape wouldn't be able to see into the cupboard form the other side… She decided against it. He'd notice that she'd used some, and really, what could she see that would be of any interest? Snape marking homework?

Setting the vial to one side, she got to her feet, sighing, and drew the nearest of the cauldrons towards her. Best to get started, she reasoned, holding her wand gingerly and peering into the cauldron.

It was completely clean. Not even a speck of dust.

Pushing it carefully back into place, she pulled out the next, checked that one too. Clean. And the next one, and the next…

Hermione sat back on her heels, bemused. Why would Snape tell her to clean cauldrons that were already spotless?

And as if on cue, she heard a soft knock. Not on her door; on the door of Snape's office. One knock only, a single rap against the wood, sounding almost unwilling. Then footsteps. Then Snape's voice.

'Draco. Thank you for coming.'

Hermione had to stifle a laugh. Of course! It all made sense; Snape hadn't given her a detention out of pure spite and vindictiveness. He wasn't _angry_ with her at all; it was simply so that she could eavesdrop on his conversation with Draco, with a convenient excuse for her friends. That was why the cauldrons were all clean already, and – of course, the potion!

'Professor,' came the quiet reply, as Hermione grabbed up the vial and pulled out the cork, then tipped a small amount of the viscous liquid onto her finger. 'What… what did you wish to see me about?'

Draco's voice was unusually tight, Hermione noted. Tense; which was only to be expected. After all, the last time he'd seen Snape, he'd almost killed the man, albeit not by his own free will. It was not going to be the easiest of meetings.

She finished drawing the rune, a vertical straight line with a shorter diagonal one attached at the top, and stood back. The door itself seemed to shimmer, to fade, and then she could see the room before her.

It looked no less ominous than it had earlier; the dark shadows and menacing jars made only slightly less threatening by the ruddy red fire. Snape and Draco stood by the door, a study in uncertainty, in tension. Snape's expression was guarded, caged, the only indication of what he was thinking in his slightly taut eyebrows.

Draco was more obvious, or perhaps she just knew how to read him better. His eyes betrayed fear, and despite the misleading reddening effect of the fire she could tell he was pale, more so than usual. His shoulders were tensed, but held high and his chin was tilted slightly upwards, which meant he was determined not to back down in fear. Even Slytherins had courage, after all. Even Gryffindors had cunning, for that matter, when they needed it.

'Come sit down, Draco,' Snape said after a long pause, holding the door an inch wider. Hermione noticed the fact that he was using Draco's first name; usually he referred to everyone by their surnames. Why was he doing that? Intentionally? She couldn't imagine Snape doing it by accident. Why, then? To set Draco at his ease, to reassure him that he wasn't angry?

Hermione realised distantly that she'd been using Draco' first name, too. When had she started doing that?

A brief flash of dread passed over Draco's face, as though he'd rather do anything than step into Snape's office. His eyes flicked around the room as he stepped through the door, made his way to the seat Snape gestured towards, sat in it. Hermione had a perfect view of him from her cupboard; he sat with his back straight and tense, his hands resting nervously in his lap, picking at the fabric of his robes. Still he met Snape's eyes as the other man sat down at his desk, facing him.

The silence was thick and heavy; neither of them knowing quite how to begin. Hermione hardly dared to breathe, lest she was heard, lest she broke the building tension.

'Draco…' Snape began, and she realised that Snape, who was usually never lost for a quick retort or a smart reply, was struggling to find words to say. 'I wanted to speak to you – to ask you, really – about-'

'I'm sorry.' Draco interrupted him, a quick burst, and then the words started flying from his mouth as though a dam had been smashed. 'I… I didn't want to, Professor, but I… How can you say no to him? He'd... he'd have had me tortured too, I… I should have been braver, I should have done something, I… I'm sorry. Please, Professor…'

Snape held up a hand for silence, and when he spoke it was with something like understanding. It was, to Hermione, a very odd thing to hear in Snape's voice. 'There was nothing you could have done, Draco. Gryffindor acts of defiance and protest would have won you nothing and cost a great deal. As you say, he would have tortured you. That would have led to one death and one torture, instead of one death. In your place I doubt I would have done any differently.'

Snape sighed, then, and Hermione wished she could see more of his face; he was sitting with his back half to her so she could see only a sliver of his expression. 'Besides,' Snape continued, 'you con console yourself with the knowledge that you were easier on me than many of the other Death Eaters would have been. Had it been someone else, I may not have survived, even with the Order's rescue.'

There was a short pause; no sound except for the curious, half-imagined sound of the fire, roaring just below and behind Hermione's hearing, too silent to be real. Draco was the next to speak, his voice timid, half a whisper. His head was bent; she couldn't see his face properly.

'You aren't angry?'

'I was more worried about you then angry with you,' Snape replied, leaning back in his chair.

'Worried?' Draco glanced upwards, his expression a mixture of suspicion and puzzlement. 'Why?'

Snape paused before answering. 'Would you like a drink?' he asked eventually. 'I have only water, but…'

Draco interrupted. 'I'm fine, thank you.'

Snape nodded, and silence fell again, while Draco kept his eyes tentatively on Snape. Hermione sat curled on the floor, feeling the tension as if it were her own, which in many ways it was. She cared as much about what was going to happen as either of them.

'I was worried,' Snape began eventually, 'because I could imagine the… _effect_… that it would have on you. Torture and murder are not things that are often borne lightly or easily by the conscience, especially not-'

'So you _were_ a spy?' Draco cut in, fidgeting in his chair. He seemed, Hermione realised, not to want to know what Snape was going to say, while at the same time drawing the topic towards it. He was scared and curious, nervous and desperate to know all at once.

'Yes, I was,' Snape replied shortly. 'The documents he claimed to prove my guilt were, of course, faked – I would hardly leave incriminating evidence lying around – but obviously I had been the suspicious link for long enough for my benefits to outweigh my costs. I became a spy before you were born, because I realised that my conscience could not accept what the Dark Lord was doing. Draco…'

He sighed, pausing for a brief second, agonizing to Hermione in its length. 'I know that you do not want to be a Death Eater.' Draco was about to interrupt; Snape held up a hand for silence. 'I know that what you are called on to do leaves you guilty and afraid; I know because I was in your position once as well, or very close to it.'

Draco's eyes were fixed on Snape with a host of jumbled feelings; fear, nervousness, disbelief, suspicion, and somewhere a glimmer of hope as well. He was still tense, still wary. 'Only close?' he asked.

'Only close,' Snape said, and then, oddly quickly, added, 'Because I kept my sanity intact.'

She saw Draco start at that; his head snapped upwards, skin paling even more until its only colour was the unnatural light of the fire, the black of his pupils suddenly very large. 'Professor...' he stammered. 'I'm… I'm not…'

'You do not need to deny it; I know already,' Snape said, and though his voice was oddly gentle Hermione tensed. This was it; he would tell Draco how he found out, now, and then…

Draco would be _furious_.

She didn't want him to be; she wanted him to like her, wanted him back to practice lines with, to talk to, to argue with. Yes, to help him back from insanity, if that was what he needed. Her fingers strayed out towards him, touched only the solid wood of the door, and she winced at that knowledge of the barrier which would soon slam down between them.

For his own good. He needed this, though he'd hate her for it, and that hurt like a knife, like the Cruciatius cast on her heart.

'When I first noticed your guilt, I began to watch more closely, and that led me to realise that being a Death Eater was troubling you in more ways than just guilt,' Snape told him. 'You hide it very well, at the meetings.'

'He knows,' Draco said, almost a whisper. 'He… he likes it, it amuses him, that's why he chose me to… because he knew it would…'

'I know,' Snape replied. 'He is in many ways just as cruel to his followers as to those he considers inhuman.'

'They _are_ inhuman,' Draco muttered, though with no real insistence behind it. He was slumped in his chair now, looking scared and lost and somehow childlike; Hermione had the urge to give him a hug and a mug of hot chocolate.

When was Snape going to tell Draco that she'd told him? She was on a knife-edge of tension; _just say it, if you're going to, get it over with…_

'Are they?' Snape asked carelessly, before continuing. 'What do you intend to do, Draco?'

'What _can_ I do?' he replied, desperation in his voice. 'I can't leave him, he'd hunt me down, torture me, kill me… I can't stay. It's… it's…'

'Dumbledore will provide protection for you, if you ask him,' Snape suggested quietly. Draco scoffed.

'Protection? What can he do? He can't… he can't keep me safe. I don't want to spend life looking over my shoulder waiting for the Dark Lord to find me. Dumbledore can't save me, not from him. Look how well he protected you!'

'I was, by my own free will, attending incredibly dangerous meetings as a spy, and Dumbledore still protected me for years.' Snape pointed out. '_And_, Draco, and I draw your attention to this fact – when I was about to be killed at the Dark Lord's instructions, he gathered forces and rescued me from what would have been certain death. Dumbledore was there himself. He… he may have some odd quirks, the occasional lapse in judgement, but he is an intelligent and understanding man who I have the greatest respect for.' Snape was silent for a moment. 'I believe he can offer you the best chance of survival and happiness.'

Draco swallowed, blinking hard, looking down at his lap. 'I _can't_,' he said. 'He won't offer me help, he can't keep me safe, not forever. Not from _him_. And… And I shouldn't be guilty anyway, I should be pleased! To be ridding the world of… of vermin… I shouldn't be guilty…'

Snape appeared to consider this for a moment. 'Tell me, Draco. Would you consider Miss Granger as… vermin?'

'Yes,' was Draco's immediate reply, and Hermione winced in some horrible, horrible pain until she realised how his voice was cracking, his shoulders shaking. 'She's… she's Muggleborn… that makes her…'

'I was under the impression you'd come to be quite friendly with her,' Snape remarked casually. Hermione wondered how much he knew, what exactly 'quite friendly' meant.

Then she wondered if he was about to tell Draco that she had been the one to tell him about the insanity, and her heart seized up in fear again.

Draco didn't seem about to reply, and after a second Snape spoke again. 'What a piece of work is a man,' he remarked. 'How noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god…'

Looking at Snape in puzzlement, Draco asked, 'Shakespeare?'

'Hamlet,' Snape said, nodding in agreement. 'Something to consider. Think how the witches are portrayed in Macbeth, for that matter. Evil, unnatural, inhuman vermin to be feared and distrusted. Funny how they thought that magical people were the inhuman ones, don't you think?'

Draco eyed Snape in confusion. 'What do you mean?'

'Simply that many attempts have been made to draw lines around who is human and who is not human,' Snape replied. 'Some of which were better than others, most of which are flawed. According to skin colour or race, for example, has been one very common way of dividing people up in the Muggle world. Religion, sexuality, gender, class… it is not always explicitly said that 'they are not human', but it is always implied.'

Draco was watching Snape very closely now, uncertainty in his eyes. 'But we're right,' he said, insistently. 'All those things are silly, but… but Muggles _aren't_ human.'

'Are they? Is your friend Miss Granger?' Snape asked, his tone light, casual. 'I wonder what the true definition of humanity is, and whether any of us will come across it. '

Draco was silent. Hermione, curled against the door, longed for the war which she could see, so clearly, going on behind his mind – between what he'd learnt and what he really thought, between blind belief and the twists of doubt – to be won, longed for one bright moment in which the prejudices drilled into him came crashing and crumbling and breaking down, letting the light in, the truth in.

It didn't happen. Draco continued to look miserable and confused until Snape stood up. 'And I believe that is enough of a conversation for one night, Draco,' he said. 'I… I would ask that you think about what I've said tonight. Not just about humanity, about going to Dumbledore as well. He can help you, Draco.'

Silently, Draco rose from his chair. Snape crossed to stand before him, and after a moment of hesitation placed one hand on Draco's shoulder. 'And do not forget that I do not blame you for what happened. You had no reasonable or easy options, and the one you chose was the most sensible. You have nothing to feel guilty for there.'

Draco nodded, and allowed Snape to steer him to the door. 'Thank you, Professor, he mumbled – Hermione could just about hear him – and then he was gone.

She let out a breath. Snape hadn't told Draco that she had told his secret, and – she felt a flickering hope well in her chest – it seemed to have done a lot of good. With time, with persuasion, with help, perhaps…

Snape waited a few seconds, then crossed the room, opening the door to her cupboard – it looked very odd to see him reach for and turn a doorhandle that was _not there. _'Miss Granger?' he asked, before she could speak. 'I trust the cauldrons are clean?'

'Yes, Professor,' she replied. He didn't seem about to mention the conversation he'd just allowed her to eavesdrop on; she followed his lead. 'They're all clean.'

'In that case, Miss Granger, I suggest you return to your common room,' he told he, then turned away, disinterested, and sat down at his desk.

She walked to the door quietly, but couldn't stop herself from turning as she reached it. 'Thank you, Professor,' she said. He didn't acknowledge it; she turned and left the room to find herself in the cool corridor, mind full and heart thumping.

* * *

**AN: **For the potion: Perlucidus means transparent. The Demiguise is the animal from whose fur Invisibility Cloaks are woven (see Fantastic Beasts) and the rune laguz symbolises revelations and hidden things, as well as emotions, fears, the unconscious and counselling, which fit the scene rather well, methinks…

NOTE FROM SILVESTRIA: Cyropi's computer is playing up on her, so I'm uploading this for her! Um... hi! Just to say, she's an amazing person and a brilliant writer! Incidentally, I'm the director of this crazy Harry Potter in Latin play, so if she is permanently traumatised by the event, blame me! (And I am very flattered she's mentioned it in her fic!) And now, back to the person you _really _want to hear from!

For this week's question, some advice. You know how long I've been writing fanfiction. Years and years and years, namely. Well, in all this time, neither of my parents have found out about my fanfic. This is due to a mixture of them being content to give me plenty of privacy and myself being incredibly secretive, due to the fact that they'll spent, oh, about ten minutes ooohing and ahhing and praising me to heaven, utterly embarrassing me in the process (I've banned the use of the word 'proud' in my presence) and the rest of _eternity_ nagging me to write more original stuff (which I fully intend to do starting after Macbeth, incidentally.)

It is, however, very surreal to realise that there is this huge part of my life about which my parents know nothing, and it would be very helpful for them to know (so that when dad wants me to come into town with him on Saturdays and do some shopping, for example, when I'm late with the update, I don't have to resort to don't feel like it/too tired/homework/I have cramps excuses and get chided for laziness.)

So. To tell or not to tell, that is the question to which I desire answers. And if I should tell them, how should I tell them? Accidentally leave a printout of some fic where they'll find it? Casually mention it in passing? Do the brave and, heavens help us, _Gryffindor_ thing by marching up to them and simply saying it?

What about my English teachers, of which I have four? Should I tell them?

Review!


	18. Act Four, Scene Six

Macbeth: Act Four, Scene Six

**Disclaimer:  
**Thrice the Potter I hath borrow'd

Thrice and once the lawyers glared,  
Cyropi cries, 'Not mine, not mine!'

**Thanks for 923 reviews goes to: **Rebecca15, JanieGranger, Highlandcoo, Nathonea, Opalfire, stellar, KawaiiRyu, thesnowcrane, Madam Midnight, samhaincat, Amber, PsYcHoJo, Alexi Lupin, RedWitch1, insanemaniac, willowfairy, Stoneage Woman, BouncingDelta88, DracoDraconis, Plaidly Lush, LittleGreenPerson, plumsy321, OXBglider, booklover (x2), draconas, Marti Is So Cool, cuznhottie, Nikki (x2), Brinneybit, Dreaming One, sashlea, SilverMoonset, Lisi, lanien, FromHereToThere, Athena Linborn, Shaney of Goldenlake, ablakevh, Tayz, Angel-Wings-Forever, missingthecat, Blonde at heart, Beloved-Stranger, brettley, je suis une pizza, nigellus, Artemis, Avelynn Tame, Genevieve Jones, TsuirakuMitsukai, Julia, Black Slytherin Girl, Zyzychyn, Xandrael, Dagon ng Likha, krisis81, heavengurl899, Kim, sugarnspice522.

**A/N: **I think it's possibly quicker easier to list the things that did _not_ get in the way of writing this chapter, and these are: mortal injury/death of myself or a loved one, fire, Apocalypse. I swear I've been through everything else. Hell of a fortnight. (Did I break a mirror and just not notice?)

Anyway, wish me luck for next Tuesday. I mentioned the Harry-Potter-in-Latin play last AN, and yep, Tuesday is the day. Any tips for my acting? I'll tell you how it went next time.

Thanks for all the replies to last chapter's question. I am Working on Things. Either slipping something into a conversation or accidentally leaving a printout lying around somewhere. Hmm… Also thanks to everyone who voted for Macbeth in the Dangerous Liaisons awards: it won first place in the 'Where Did That Come From?' award!

Oh, and to answer a question: yes, 'touch wood' is from the same place as 'knock on wood'. It used to be believed that wood and wooden objects was inhabited by nature spirits, and that touching the wood would awake these spirits and invoke them to protect you from bad luck.

And finally, as of Sunday 13th, I am officially 17. Happy Birthday to me! Thankfully for the safety of the British public, I'm not intending to learn to drive yet. You can all relax now.

On to the chapter. Enjoy!

* * *

'Harry's already at breakfast,' was the first thing Ron said as Hermione approached. He didn't look up, because he was busily scribbling on a roll of parchment, glancing at his textbook every few seconds. 'Bloody homework. Wait five minutes for me, will you? I'm almost done.'

Hermione gave him a disapproving look as she sat down beside him. 'Is that due in this morning? Why didn't you do it last night?'

Ron glanced sideways at her, his quill pausing momentarily. 'I was talking to Harry,' he replied simply, after a moment's thought. 'I'm not _completely_ _irresponsible_, you know,' he added, mimicking her tone almost perfectly. 'I did have good reason.'

Abashed, Hermione looked down. 'Sorry,' she said, 'I just assumed… was there something wrong? I mean, more than…'

'Not really, he just needed, you know, distracting, I think,' Ron replied, frowning at his textbook. '_How_ many ounces of beetle eyes…?'

'Two,' Hermione replied, and settled down on a comfortable sofa to wait for him. It was the least she could do, after all. If only she could know who needed her most and when! It would make things far easier. Harry did need her, and Draco needed her, and last night she'd been helping Draco – she'd needed to listen to what Snape was saying to him, after all, but…

But she wished she could have been back to help Harry too. Though of course it would have been impossible. She'd had that 'detention' with Snape, and then Dean and Padma had waylaid her and asked if they could practice the sleepwalking scene, and by the time they'd finished that Hermione had been exhausted. Too exhausted to do anything but crawl into bed and lie awake half the night, tossing and turning and trying to think of anything but Draco with the Mark on his wrist, with blood on his hands.

'Finished,' Ron said dramatically, throwing his quill down and then starting to pack away. 'Lets get to breakfast quickly, I'm _starving_.'

She couldn't help but smile at that; Typical Ron. They headed for the portrait hole together, and out into the pleasantly cool corridor, walking beside each other in a companionable early-morning silence. Hermione found her thoughts wandering back to Draco, as they did far too often these days. Hopefully he wouldn't know shat she'd been the one to tell Snape, or that she'd be listening in; he'd be furious if he found out either. Still, it was for his own good, so she could justify the… not the _lie_, as such, the omission of truth. And considering what he'd told Snape…

'You look worried,' Ron said, in the air of someone remarking on the weather, though he gave her a long glance sideways as he said it. Hermione knew Ron, and that suggested he wasn't just making a casual remark.

For a split second, she was convinced he knew. About Draco, about his Mark, about his insanity, about the way he felt and _everything_… and then she caught herself and remembered that was impossible, unless he'd been listening in on all their conversations. Harry. He would think she was worried about Harry – which she was, of course, but to a lesser extent than she was worried about Draco. Mainly because Harry seemed to be coping well, even if he was a little melancholy and pensive, while Draco was, well, losing his mind.

Back to Ron. She frowned a little, letting herself look anxious. 'It's just… with what happened with Snape, and the vision, and then… Well, Snuffles, of course.' She couldn't say Sirius' name in the middle of the school corridors, after all. 'I'm just a bit worried about Harry.'

It was true, she was worried about Harry. She wasn't lying; simply omitting some further aspects of the truth – like the entire Draco issue.

'He'll be okay,' Ron said, in what was obviously meant to be a reassuring tone. 'Don't worry too much about him, he's doing fine.'

Which was exactly what she thought, too, but hearing it from Ron – when he thought it was Harry she was really worried about – was somehow cheering. She wished for a moment she could tell Ron about Draco, but held her tongue. She'd like his thoughts on it, or even just his simple, warm reassurance, but she knew full well that Ron would be, well, less than pleased of he knew. And she couldn't justify telling him Draco's secrets, not like she'd been able to with Snape.

Instead, she opted to give him a warm smile. ' Thanks Ron,' she said. 'I… you're right. Harry will be fine.'

* * *

School seemed to be over before it had fairly begun; it was one of those days where whole hours seemed to pass in a matter of minutes, as if the day were racing impulsively towards sunset with no regard for the natural progression of time. Breakfast was barely memory, it seemed, before the day was drawing to a close.

Harry and Ron had an hour's Quidditch practice, after which Hermione had vowed to put all her homework aside – it was Friday night, so she could afford to – and spend the rest of the evening in front of the fire in the Gryffindor common room with her friends.

But for now, she had the best part of an hour before the two of them returned, and a large Arithmancy homework due in on Monday, and she was heading to her usual table in the library to immerse herself in sums. Hermione liked Arithmancy; it was such a scientific subject, neat and precise with answers that were always right or wrong. It was refreshing, in a way, after the nuances and complexities of NEWT-level Transfiguration or Potions. Arithmancy was challenging, of course, but in a much…

She never finished that thought, because she rounded the corner to her usual table and saw Draco Malfoy sitting there.

There was a sheet of parchment on the table in front of him, with a neatly placed selection of textbooks spread out around it. His inkwell was to his left, quill in his hand, resting idly between thumb and forefinger. He'd written the title, and then a sentence or two, and no more.

He hadn't seen her. Draco looked, in a word, distracted. His chin rested in his free hand; he was staring in an abstract kind of way at the row of books opposite him, his hair falling loosely around his face. Hermione wondered if he'd been running his hands though it, or playing with it absent-mindedly as he thought.

Glancing around her, Hermione came to a conclusion. She shouldn't disturb him; not for something unnecessary like homework, not when she could do it at another table just as easily. Not when she knew he… he felt something for her, and that would just make his problem worse. Better to leave him be except for when she had to speak to him; a rehearsal, or a moment of insanity when he needed her.

Quietly, she took a step backwards, but the movement must have alerted him. His head snapped around so suddenly she would almost swear she never saw it move. Hermione saw a brief flicker of something she didn't have long enough to identify pass over his face, before he frowned and his expression settles to one of wary curiosity. His eyes, which had been soft, abstracted grey a moment ago, were now sharp and intelligent and piercing, rooting her to the spot.

'I was just going to do some homework,' Hermione found herself saying, taking a further step backwards. 'I'll go find another table.'

Draco tilted his head on one side, regarding her thoughtfully, as though she were a puzzle that he couldn't quite work out. She'd seen that look before, she realised; in Arithmancy, when he was trying to solve particularly difficult problems.

'There's room for you here,' he said eventually, his voice slow and unusually clear, and he started to move yet another pile of textbooks off the seat beside him. There were three other chairs ringed around the table, but he was moving the books off the one beside him. Hermione hovered, nervously, at the alcove's entrance.

'I don't want to get in your way,' she said, experimentally – she didn't want to say the real reason why she thought she should go elsewhere, after all. 'There's plenty of other tables.'

Draco shook his head. 'Nonsense,' he said, and raised his chin in that aristocratic, authoritative manner he had. Hermione wondered if he knew how that position made the light angle off his cheek and jaw, and vowed not to tell him. He'd start doing it all the time, she thought with a fond smile. 'Sit down.'

She didn't want to argue; Hermione knew it would get her nowhere. And she couldn't sit in one of the other seats, now Draco had cleared that one for her. Tentatively, as if expecting it to explode, she slid into the seat beside Draco.

He leant back over his work, an air-light layer of hair falling down to hide his eyes, and she paused for a moment, unsure, before reaching into her bag and pulling out her things. Beside her, the quill started scribbling on the parchment, and she allowed herself to relax a little. If he got settled to his work, and she to hers, they could pass the hour together with little incident. It might even be pleasant, sitting beside someone and working, on their own but still with that amenable sense of fellowship.

She finished setting out her books and parchment – Hermione was mused to note that her system differed only slightly to Draco's: Harry and Ron, by comparison, tended to have their things all over the place, more or less haphazardly. Smiling, she set her quill to parchment and for a few minutes there was only the quiet, comforting sound of two quills scratching, in tandem, over the surface of the parchment, with very brief occasional pauses wile Draco looked up a fact or Hermione read the next question.

And then Hermione realised that one of Draco's pauses had lasted at least five minutes.

She stopped in the middle of a sum, considering. He could just be innocently daydreaming. It was possible. But in his state of mind? Unlikely. Any daydreaming he did would be more like a nightmare.

Or he could just have been looking a fact up and been caught by a fascinating paragraph or two. There was always that. Taking a breath, and telling herself not to be so silly, she tilted her head ever so slightly and glanced towards him.

He was looking at her.

Not just looking, but… It was his expression. Draco was a good actor, in life as well as in Shakespeare, and when he wasn't mad he could usually hide a lot of things. He wasn't hiding anything now – did he know she was looking? – and it seemed as though every feeling, every emotion was reflected in his eyes.

Most of all, he looked scared.

_Scared_ didn't do it justice. He looked like someone facing down a legion of Boggarts; he was more than scared. And beneath the fear and apprehension there were other things. Confusion swirled sickeningly there for a moment, nausea, uncertainty. Love, very briefly, a warm cast to his eyes that made her stomach twist.

And then he must have realised she was watching, because his eyes widened suddenly in alarm. She saw his shoulders tense, and when she glanced back to his face his eyes were guarded and calm again.

Not entirely hidden, because there was still some emotion on his face. Curiosity mainly, and she felt inordinately irate to know that he was hiding from her. She wanted to see what he felt, to know exactly what he was thinking, to _help_. But of course she could never know those things anyway, not exactly. And he had a right to privacy.

'Do you want me to go?' she asked, feeling somewhat nervous under his steady gaze. He shook his head slowly, reached out as if to touch her, then thought better of it.

'I want…' he began, then frowned. 'I don't know what I want.'

His hand dropped, eyes moving away from her; it didn't seem to be a conscious action. 'I want…' he began again, and stopped, before shaking his head, trying t snap himself out of whatever assailed him. Hermione longed to put a comforting hand on his shoulder, but didn't dare do so; she knew what that would set off.

'It… none of it makes sense anymore,' Draco began, his voice so low and quiet that Hermione didn't know if he was speaking to her or to himself. 'I always knew. I always knew what was right and what was wrong and who was good and who was bad, and I knew what I was meant to do, and what I mustn't ever do, and I knew what I loved and what I hated. And it was all easy,' When he spoke, the words came out in one long breath, without pauses. 'And now…

'It's all broken now, all gone, it just... it just _disintegrated. _Like dust.' He dragged his eyes round to face her. 'It just vanished, because what's right might not be right and what's wrong might not be wrong, and what was good is evil and what was evil is good, and I don't know it any more. I don't know which way's up and which way's down. It's all lost…'

'Draco?' she whispered, and somehow her hand found its way to his. 'Draco, I, I know…'

He tilted his head on one side, and that look silenced her. She felt for a moment like a specimen, something to be examined clinically and emotionlessly and understood, and then she felt like… like a _human being_, to be cared for and loved, and it was the same gaze that said both things, impossibly.

And then he lifted his hands, carefully and gently, and settled them around her throat. It looked like he was strangling her, and Hermione suddenly, wildly, wondered what would happen if someone walked in and saw this. They'd think murder was being committed.

Except he didn't squeeze, just let his hands lie around her neck. His skin felt warm against hers, and the palms of his hands were soft; she could herself tiling her head back to give him better access, and then wondered what she was doing. He could still kill her at any moment, kill her, squeeze the breath and the life out of her…

One hand moved softly against her skin, and – how had that happened? – his face was close enough to hers that she could feel his breath against her mouth as he spoke. 'Fair is foul and foul is fair,' he whispered. And for a moment she couldn't even think what he meant, because her mind was far more interested in how soft his skin looked, the way his lips were moving, so gently, the tickle of warm breath on her mouth…

And then somehow, inexplicably, she closed the meagre centimetre between them and kissed him.

She couldn't breathe, for reasons that had nothing to do with the hands at her neck and everything to do with the lips on hers, moving against hers. Hermione had kissed Krum before, but never, and nothing like… His hands were moving. Slipping down slightly, one finger tracing the lines of her collarbone, dipping to the base of her throat, and when had the library become quite so _silent_, or their breathing quite so _loud_?

It was tentative, because she wasn't thinking straight and she doubted he was either, but the first gentle brushes of lips on lips felt like nothing she could describe. It felt like madness, it felt like sanity, it felt like finding something safe in the middle of a storm, it felt like coming back to a forgotten but instinctively recognised home, Her hands rose of their own accord, slipping upwards to tangle in his hair – as soft as it looked – and…

And suddenly it was gone; Draco's hands ripped themselves from her skin, his lips were torn away, and Hermione's eyes flew open to see him staring at her in absolute shock, absolute horror. He looked as though he'd just murdered someone.

What had she been _thinking_? Why had she… no, she didn't want an answer to that question. She didn't let herself ask it. She had to focus on Draco.

He was as far away from her as he could get without falling off his chair. White fingers curled stiffly around the seat, clinging on. Hermione forced herself to look at them before slowly moving her eyes upwards, afraid of what she'd see in his face…

How had she not realised? How had she not known that she… no, she mustn't think that now, later, perhaps, but not _now_.

Hermione's eyes reached his face, nervously, allowing herself to take in his expression in increments, in small doses, so that it wasn't as hard to accept. First the mouth, still slightly open in horror, lips redder than usual – oh, she should have _known_, she should never have _let herself_ – and his skin. She remembered the chapter in her Dark Arts textbook on vampires, the large coloured illustration of a vampire's victim, dead of course, all the blood sucked from his veins, all the colour leeched out of him, pure and impossible white.

Draco's skin looked like that.

And then she reached his eyes. She'd been imagining every emotion in the world in those eyes, and each one felt worse than the last – insanity, hatred, fear, disgust – but what was actually there was worse. His eyes themselves were empty, as blank as shards of slate. Not blank as though he were trying to hide what he felt, but blank in a different way; there was nothing there to hide because he couldn't think, couldn't begin to grasp…

The back of her neck felt cold where his hands had been. Blinking hard, she looked down, not knowing what to say, what to do to make it better. She couldn't do anything. It was her fault, too; she should have realised that she… she should have controlled herself better, she should have stopped herself, she should have thought…

'Draco?' Her voice came out as little more than a whisper. Draco made an odd choking noise, and then there was no sound but their breathing; his was too fast.

Hermione longed to reach out to him and help, just a simple hug would suffice, some physical warmth, some human contact. But how could she? It would only make things worse. It would only hurt him more. And how could she trust that impulse, anyway? In the light of… of what she'd just done, how did she know she didn't want to touch him for purely selfish reasons?

No. She wanted to help him, of that she was sure. But still…

There was a sudden hitch of breath, and Hermione glanced up to see Draco staring at her, all the emotions she'd feared before, and more, now in his eyes. Disgust fought desperation, fear fought need, hatred fought love, and what could she do to help? Turning away from him could hurt as much as toughing him, she knew, and what could she do? She had to help, but there was nothing, nothing…

'Hermione.' She shivered; just that one word sounded as though it had taken all his strength, all his will to produce, as though he was fighting too hard to have spare energy for things like speech. 'Just… just _go_. Please.'

She didn't need to be told twice; she didn't even pack her homework away. Grabbing her schoolbag hastily, she stumbled to her feet – knocking over a chair but not wasting time picking it up – and half-ran for Gryffindor Tower, fleeing something she didn't want to understand.

* * *

**AN: **Hehehe…

For this week's review topic: make me laugh. As mentioned above, I've had a hell of a time lately, so cheer me up! Tell me a joke, direct me to a good piece of comic fic, relate something hilarious that happened to you.

Review!


	19. Act Five, Scene One

Macbeth: Act Five, Scene One

**Disclaimer:  
**Thrice the Potter I hath borrow'd  
Thrice and once the lawyers glared,  
Cyropi cries, 'Not mine, not mine!'

(Yeah, I used the same disclaimer as last time. Give me a break. I want to get some sleep!)

**Thanks for 1019 reviews goes to:** Catelina, Silvestria, Brittany, fightclub16, DracoDraconis, KawaiiRyu, Miko-Hime, Opalfire, Laicamiel, samhaincat, Highlandcoo, Periannath, heavengurl899, Dagon ng Likha, draconas, sashlea, Tayz, ToOtHpIcK, BouncingDelta88, Madam Midnight, Maibe Josie, SycoCallie, LyraSilvertongue2, Kiyoko, je suis une pizza, palindrom, Alexi Lupin, Lisi, Beloved-Stranger, Rebecca15, RedWitch1, Pho3nix, Anna, Xandrael, Jemma452, Plaidly Lush, Genevieve Jones, Moonlight soul, ablakevh, IkisKrumm, Marti Is So Cool, Fuschia Nicole, Nathonea, Nikki, Shaney of Goldenlake, stellarr, Ellie, Medea Callous, Scaz, brettley, Sever13, Lucifer's Garden (x2), kazhdu, Isis Delphia, nady (x3), Janie Granger, Flavagurl, heartofglassx, Chiinoyami-chan, foxeran, blurredcat, nuit (x2), Kate-Felton, Snowe, Jeccia (x2), innocenteen, pensive puddles, MysticStar7037, Alyana Enders, Lil Miss Lupin, Fuchs-chan, NotreDame-girlie, LittleGreenPerson, thatonechic, charrieter, anonymous, BookwormBelle, zippyziggy, Lyddie, Dustbunnie, goldenkinkogirl, Silver Eyes Bright, Gina, Badbunny (x2), willowfairy, moonsome, DarkAngel323, sugar n spice 522, haromin.

**A/N: **The review count broke 1000! THANK YOU to everyone who's read, reviewed and enjoyed. You lot keep me going. _Seriously_. Thanks especially for all the jokes (whether dire or amusing) and stories you suggested last week; they kept me cheerful!

For those of you who don't read Fallen; I have two new one shots on my profile: Euthanasia and Sunlight. I also have **forum news** both good and bad. The bad news is that I'm not starting my own forum any more. The good news is that this is because I'm Head of Ravenclaw and co-runner at the Fiction Net forum. Info on my profile, and I hope some of you join (and become Ravenclaws!)

Oh, and as you've all been asking: yes, you will get to see the play being performed. Most definitely. Insert insane maniac cackle here.

Onto the chapter, enjoy!

* * *

The Gryffindor common room was mercifully quiet; abandoned but for a few clustered groups of friends. None of them were people she knew well, which was another small mercy, because the last thing Hermione wanted was to talk to anyone. Not now, not after… after what had just happened. And she didn't want to spend time making excuses, trying to get people to leave her in peace to think.

And she _needed_ to think, needed to sort this whole tangled mess of a situation out into some semblance of order before she went as mad as Draco. She needed to find a dark corner of the warm, familiar common room and try to make some sense of everything.

Settling into a well-worn, homely armchair, she curled her knees up to her chest and closed her eyes briefly. The memory of the touch of those lips, _his_ lips on hers came back to her like an echo. The way he'd been careful, almost tentative. Whether that stemmed from some desire not to scare her, or whether it was because his twisted sense of humanity was screaming at him not to touch her, Hermione didn't know. And his _hands_, his hands on her skin…

She forced her eyes open, suddenly shivering. She shouldn't be thinking of that. It had been a mistake. It had been wrong and it had hurt him. Hermione remembered the horrified look in his eyes all too well; he thought that Muggleborns were subhuman, like animals, or worse than animals, and to kiss one… to kiss _her_… She tried to ignore the twinge of pain that passed through her at that thought. It was only because she hated prejudice that it hurt. It was only the prejudice there that upset her, not because she wanted him to like her. It _was_.

Hermione closed her eyes again, twisting her hands together, trying not to think of the kiss. What had she been thinking? She took a deep breath, realising with some dismay that she needed to gather her courage just to think the next thought.

Did she _like_ him?

She couldn't. He was… he was _Malfoy_. A Death Eater, and prejudiced, and they'd hated each other for years. Even if the guilt was sending him insane, even if his prejudices were cracking and breaking, leaving his sure and firm set-earth suddenly frail, shattering beneath him. Even if he needed her, even if he _could_ be nice, when he wanted to be. And intelligent, and witty, and to be honest, a really good actor. And not, in any way, unattractive.

Even if, she realised, resigning herself to what she'd known since her lips met his, even if she didn't hate him all that much anymore.

Quite the opposite, really.

She let herself sigh, rubbing her hands together nervously and leaning back into the soft cushions. Hermione changed her mind about what she'd thought earlier: she wouldn't mind someone coming down and asking her what was wrong. She couldn't _tell_ them, but she could talk to them about other things. Trivial things, like homework and the excitement over the stage being erected in the Great Hall. Things that could take her mind off kisses with Draco Malfoy.

But she was being selfish, or perhaps running from something she didn't want to consider. Draco was her priority at that moment; Draco and the kiss, and what she ought to do about him.

Things would be so much easier, she thought, if there were none of these complications. If only she could live in a world where Draco wasn't a Death Eater or half-mad, where Voldemort had never even risen to power once, let alone twice; where all of them were just normal people and could live out their lives without politics or prejudice or insanity. There the only issue would be whether he liked her and whether she liked him; there the problem would be _simple_.

But it wasn't simple, and wishing that it would be wouldn't change the problem now in front of her. And if she wanted to help Draco – and she did – she had to figure out what to do.

Draco liked her, in _that_ way – she couldn't bring herself to use anything more descriptive; that was too frightening – and she liked him too. But when that combined with Draco's prejudice against Muggleborns, and with his fragile sanity breaking already from the murder of Muggles and Muggleborns in his service as a Death Eater…

It all came down to prejudice, in the end. He still felt that killing Muggles was the right thing to do, or _ought_ to be the right thing; that it was something he should enjoy. Except his conscience told him otherwise. If she could break the prejudice, he'd still be guilty for the murders, yes, but at the least he'd know what right and wrong were again. And he… and he wouldn't feel guilty for liking her. She didn't know what to think about that. It would be a good thing, she supposed, if she could somehow break his prejudices. But how?

For now, Hermione realises, she couldn't do anything about it. Anything she tried would only strengthen the conflict between what he wanted and what he thought he should want; strengthen it to the point where his sanity shattered again, and she didn't want to think about what would happen if his sanity were damaged _permanently_. He could recover from his current state of mind, she knew, because most of the time he was as sane as anyone else. But if things got worse…

She shifted in her armchair, nervously rubbing her hands together. What was she going to do, then, if she couldn't take the offensive against his prejudices? It was probably a good thing she'd told Snape, because Hermione doubted she'd be much good for Draco. It'd be hard enough to get through rehearsals and practices, with what must be going through his mind when he saw her, thought of her…

Her eyes were caught by the flicker of motion as the portrait hole opened, and she glanced towards it, not expecting anyone in particular. To her surprise, it was Harry who stepped through; his cheeks noticeably pink even in the crimson common room, where any shade of red tended to pale into insignificance.

He caught her eye, smiled a fraction too briefly, and hastened over. Hermione found she didn't mind the intrusion – she wanted a distraction – though she was surprised that Ron and Ginny weren't with him.

'Hey,' she called, as soon as he came close enough to hear her. 'You look tired. Quidditch practice?'

'What?' he asked, sinking onto one end of a sofa. 'Oh, no. I was… ah…' Harry paused for a moment, fumbling the edge of his sleeve between his fingers. He gave a quick glance around the common room and leaned forward slightly before continuing, and when he spoke, his voice was low and confidential. 'You remember the… the vision?'

Hermione nodded; she could hardly forget it. Harry gave the common room another suspicious look before continuing. 'Dumbledore persuaded Snape to start teaching me Occlumency again.'

'That's where you were?' Hermione asked, a sudden sense of fear filling her. Snape hated Harry still, and she doubted that the vision and rescue would have changed anything. Almost by reflex she scanned Harry's face, looking for signs of something being wrong. The distant firelight picked out the faint lines across his forehead, a slight curl to his lip… 'Are you okay?'

'Fine,' he assured her. 'He was… well, surprisingly all right. He didn't say anything about what happened with the vision or when I looked in… or anything else in the past,' he finished quickly. Hermione didn't notice.

'Are you sure?' she asked. 'You _look_ like something's wrong. I won't tell anyone anything, you know.'

'I know,' he assured her, staring vaguely in the direction of the wall. 'It's nothing, really. Just that I'm not getting any better at Occlumency, so I'm going through all the memories again. I feel like I've been a few rounds with a Dementor, except I can't scare Snape away with a Patronus.' He gave her a rather weak smile as he said that, and despite the attempt at a joke, Hermione shivered.

'Are you okay?' she asked, feeling ridiculous for saying it even as she spoke. 'I… I mean… did you remember…?'

'Sirius,' Harry said, his voice a pained sigh. He nodded. 'Yeah. And all the other usual ones. I hate having to remember. Normally I can just push them all to the back of my mind and I'm fine, but then I remember them and it's almost like going through them all over again.'

She didn't know what to do. It was almost as hard as trying to work out how to help Draco. Tentatively, Hermione reached out over the gap between their chairs and gave her friend's hand a gentle squeeze. He looked up, smiled. 'Thanks. I'll be okay in a bit. It helps… it helps that I _want_ to do Occlumency now.'

'You do?' Hermione asked.

He nodded, a short gesture. 'Yes. Because…' Harry paused for a second, staring fiercely at nothing, his hand curling on the arm of the chair. 'Because if I'd learnt it earlier, Sirius would… he wouldn't have died. So I've got to learn it now, I want to learn it. It's like a punishment, in a way. If I hadn't gone running off…'

'Don't blame yourself so much,' Hermione told him firmly. Harry simply shrugged, but then she knew he'd heard that piece of advice a thousand times before. There was simply nothing else to say.

'So I'm kind of glad it's happening, really,' Harry finished, as though she'd never interrupted. A flicker of something passed over his face. 'Though I do feel a bit guilty… I wanted…'

He broke off, and Hermione allowed him a few seconds before prompting him to continue. His face was paler now than when he came in, though the firelight still gave it a reddish tint. 'Go on,' Hermione said gently.

Harry frowned, then glanced up to meet her eyes. She saw something very like guilt pass across his face before he confessed, 'I was thinking how I had visions of both of them – Snape and Sirius. And I wanted… I wished things had been the other way round. That Sirius lived and Snape…' He broke off, turning his head away, and his voice was unreadable. 'Pretty horrible thing to want, really.'

Hermione didn't know what to say; didn't think thee was anything she could say. Wordlessly, she reached out her hand again to give his a friendly squeeze. He glanced up at that, looking almost nervous.

'But it's normal, too,' she replied, finally finding her voice. 'I mean, Sirius… he was your godfather. And you never liked Snape. And people always want those they loved to come back, after they…' She didn't want to say _died_.

'It's not like I _want_ Snape to die,' Harry continued, almost as if she had responded with disgust and he was trying to justify himself. 'It's just that… if I could have chosen which one to save…'

'Don't worry about it,' Hermione said, trying to reassure him. 'I think it's… I think it's just human. That doesn't mean it's good, of course, but it's… it's not necessarily wrong.'

He nodded at that, expression slightly dazed for a few moments before he looked up at her, giving Hermione a real smile. 'Thanks,' he said. 'I think I needed to hear that.'

* * *

'But I still don't see why… bloody _hell_.' Ron stared in a distinctly impressed amazement at the Great Hall in front of him. 'That's going to be huge!'

The rapidly-approaching play had been one of the major topics of school gossip ever since it was announced, and even more so now that the performance dates were set and looming ever closer. Last night's big discussions had centred around the stage. Only the actors had seen a model of it, and since the rumour that the directors were beginning construction had started to spread, very little else had been talked about.

The stage, as Ron had said, was going to be huge, and the three of them paused at the door to take it in It was fortunate that the Great Hall was a big room, because the stage alone – along with backstage areas for prop storage, changing and so forth – was taking up almost a third of the space.

The rest of the hall, where the audience would be seated, was still occupied by breakfasting students and house tables. Except that each of the single, long house tables had been split into two, so each house now had twin ranks of students eyeing the growing stage and discussing the coming play in excited whispers. The staff table was just at the base of where the stage ended; Hermione could see Dumbledore cheerfully spreading marmalade on a pile of pancakes, and Professor Snape glowering thoughtfully at his plate.

'I think I'm getting stage fright,' Harry said gloomily as they walked over to one of the Gryffindor tables, 'and it isn't even _finished_ yet.'

'You make a great Macduff, though,' Hermione said, her eyes straying back to the stage.

'Until I forget my lines, or fall over, or miss a cue…' Harry said, almost jokingly as he slid into an empty space and reached for the sausages.

Ron shook his head in distaste. 'Makes me glad I didn't audition,' he remarked.

Harry and Ron continued to chatter as they filled their plates hungrily and cheerfully tucking in to what looked like a full English breakfast each. Hermione was pleased to note that Harry seemed fine. That wasn't always an indication that he _was_ fine, of course, but it did suggest that he was reasonably in control.

Her glance slipped towards the stage again as she took a piece of toast. The sight of it, and the reminder that time was growing short, was both unsettling and exciting. To think that in a few short weeks she'd be standing on the completed stage, acting Lady Macbeth to a packed audience… The mixture of anticipation and nerves coiled uneasily in her stomach, and she found that her appetite was completely gone.

Knowing that if she didn't eat she'd be starving by lunchtime, Hermione nibbled on her toast and – before she could even think about it – her eyes flicked curiously to the Slytherin tables, looking for Draco.

She spotted him almost instantly; sitting with his back to the Gryffindor tables, head bent so that she could see only a glimmer of the hair at the base of his neck. That was unusual, surely? He normally sat facing the room and the other house tables, Slytherin's table being right on the edge of the Hall. In fact, she couldn't remember him _ever_ sitting to face the wall, with his back to the world. And – Hermione tore a piece of her toast glumly – it wasn't hard to guess what, or rather _who_, he didn't want to be looking at. What he didn't want to think about and remember…

She could hardly blame him, really.

There had to be something she could _do_. Was there anyone else she could tell about Draco? Snape was the obvious person, really, and she knew that he'd have passed the information on to Dumbledore. Who else? None of the other teachers, she concluded after a quick glance through them. None of them would really-

A hoot suddenly sounded directly above her head and she jumped, glancing up to see the post owls swooping through the air above her. She must have been so preoccupied she hadn't heard them arriving. Most mornings she didn't pay them much attention; Ron was the only one of the three of them who usually got letters. Hermione tended to limit her letters home to once a fortnight, knowing that the visiting owls would be rather difficult for her parents to explain if they happened too often. Harry, of course, never wrote to the Dursleys unless he absolutely had to, and they did the same.

Both she and Harry, therefore, were rather surprised when two tawny owls dropped out of the multitude to perch by their plates, holding out identical-looking letters to both of them.

Harry frowned at the roll of parchment as she took it. 'Who'd be writing to me?' he asked.

'It's someone from school, at any rate,' Ron remarked. 'See, they both have school tags on their legs.' He stared bemusedly up at the mass of soaring, swirling birds, some of which were already flying back to the Owlery or their owners. 'There's more owls than usual today, too.'

'Only one way to find out,' Hermione said, and unrolled her letter. The mystery became clear as soon as she recognised Megan's handwriting.

As I'm sure you're all aware, the play had been scheduled for the weekend before the end of term, with one performance on each night. The Saturday night performance will be attended by the Muggle Studies NEWT examiners to complete their assessment of our direction of the play.

_Obviously, time is of the essence. Rehearsals have been scheduled for the final few weeks, including full run-throughs of the play, costume fittings and dress rehearsals. Please not that all these rehearsals are VITAL and take precedence over any other extracurricular activities. You are also encouraged to arrange extra rehearsals in your spare time._

There followed a neat list of all Hermione's rehearsals. She glanced through the list, noting that her costume fitting was scheduled for the following evening, and looked up at Harry.

'Well, that explains it,' he said, giving the owl a titbit of bacon from his plate and stroking its feathers before allowing it to fly away. 'Do you know what the costumes are going to be like?'

Hermione gave him a reproachful look. 'If you'd been listening at that meeting we had…' She let the sentence trail off uncompleted; he ducked his head and grinned sheepishly, which made Hermione suppress a smile. The little owl that had delivered Megan's letter tugged on her sleeve beseechingly, asking permission to leave.

She was about to steal a sausage from the big plates of food in front of her and give it a piece when a thought struck her, and her eyes slipped from the owl to the Slytherin table.

'Wait a moment,' she asked the owl, her eyes still fixed on Draco. 'Will you take someone a letter for me? I'll give you a sausage. A whole one.'

The owl hooted enthusiastically, and Hermione ducked her head under the table, pulling out quill, ink and parchment from her schoolbag. Finding a space free of plates on the table, she composed a quick note.

_Draco,_

_Do you want to meet sometime? To practice? Usual place, usual time, if that's alright with you._

She paused before adding her name, hesitated, then scribbled in another line.

We don't have to talk about it. We can pretend it never happened.

Hermione.

She quickly folded the letter in half and then in quarters, before Harry or Ron could see, or before the twinge in her stomach that cried about at the very idea of pretending it never happened could make itself more strongly known. She passed the letter to the bird and fed it a sausage, which it gulped down greedily, reminding her strangely of Ron.

'Take it to Draco Malfoy, please,' she asked the owl. 'He's over there at the Slytherin table.'

The owl nodded, grasped the letter firmly and flew off. Ron frowned.

'What are you writing to him for?' he asked bemusedly before realising. 'Oh. Play stuff.'

'Practices,' Hermione agreed, watching the tawny owl perch by Draco's side, watching him take the letter and read it – oh, she wished she could see his face. He made no indication of what he thought, but slipped the parchment in his pocket and nodded to the owl, which flew off in an almost huffy manner. Draco hadn't given it a titbit. Was that a bad sign?

'So what's your costume like, Hermione?' Harry suddenly asked, drawing her attention back to the Gryffindors. 'Apparently I have to tear part of mine off when… you know. When Macduff's family get killed. What about everyone else's?'

Hermione, who had been listening at the meeting, forced herself to forget about Draco for a while and began to explain.

* * *

**AN: **Okay, okay, no need to threaten. There will be a Draco-Hermione scene next week. Promise!

This week's review topic has a slightly more serious bent, mainly because I started debating this with various friends online and got four different answers from four different people.

Do you think Harry could torture a Death Eater to get information in the War? Would it depend on the situation – if he knew the person or not, how far the torture had to go… Would he do it to spare a friend from doing it? Would someone else do it?

Yeah, we are ignoring the existence of Veritaserum for this question, because getting into the difficult characterisation, psychology and morality issues is more fun.

Review!


	20. Act Five, Scene Two

Macbeth: Act Five, Scene Two

**Disclaimer: **'How now, you secret, black and midnight hags! What is it you read?' 'A fic without a disclaimer!' Insert ominous rumble of thunder here.

(Oh, hell. For safety's sake: don't own it. JK does. Long live JK!)

**Thanks for 1076 reviews goes to:** brittany, samhaincat, Lisi, SilverMoonset, sashlea, Perrinath, Maibe Joisie, willowfairy, Stoneage Woman, Shaney of Goldenlake, thesnowcrane, DracoDraconis, yd, trapped-in-a-dream, moonsome, RedWitch1, MiRoRmInX, AniDragon, aka Riona-chan (x3), haomin, Kate Felton, Marti Is So Cool, Flavagurl, MysticStar7037, Plaidly Lush, cuznhottie, Karma Chameleon, Alyana Enders, Gina, Janie Granger, elfinfaerie, Ickis Krumm, Crystal Dragonfly, NotreDamegirlie, DarkCherry, FairyOFire, Sever13, Genevieve Jones, RedNovember, Madam Midnight, unknown, astraeos (x3), azura14, SpaceOddity, BouncingDelta88, babygiirl, FlexiLexi, Catelina, Cinnamon, xXxThe coldness of lovExXx, heavengurl899, Moralinde, Mirwen Sunrider.

**A/N: Important notice: I am going on study leave.**

Yes, I have exams coming up. I have the coming week, and then one more week, and then a particularly horrible week in which I have three exams. All my examinations are three hours long. And do you have any idea how much I have to learn for Psychology? It's ten times worse than history. Seriously. Argh.

Anyway, the week after that is blessedly empty, and I shall resume writing then. The week after that I have my Biology exam, but heck, it's Biology. Which I'm probably dropping next year. So yes.

Incidentally, possibly the most amusing flame in the world is currently hovering around page 3 of my review list, or if you just look up all the chapter 1 reviews. I've never seen a flame like it. (YD, if you're reading this – are you alright?) Thanks also to those who wrote a review defending me against it! (i.e. Alyana Enders)

In addition: I have fanart! Drawn by my wonderful friend Syco, and really very fitted to this chapter. The link is on my profile!

With that, onto the fic. A longer-than-usual edition too, because, well, the muses kidnapped me. Enjoy!

* * *

Draco was avoiding her.

He hadn't replied to the letter she'd sent him at breakfast, or the one she'd sent him the next day, or the day after that. They'd had rehearsals together, of course – two of them – but he hadn't spoken a word apart from his lines to her, and his expression when he hadn't been acting was completely blank. Draco was very good at controlling his expressions – he had to be, really.

She had tried to waylay him afterwards, but he'd practically raced from the practice room both times, and she hadn't been able to catch up with him. She didn't even know what she'd say to him if she _did_ catch up with him. They needed to arrange practices. That much she was sure of. But beyond the play, beyond the simple need to perfect their acting before their performance…

Beyond that she had no idea what to do. She'd gone over the problem so many times in her head, but still there was no way out of it, no way to balance the need to stop him breaking down, the need to break his prejudice, the need to persuade him to leave Voldemort, the need to comfort him.

And her own feelings, of course, but she told herself those weren't important. Draco was the most important; whatever her own feelings for him were, they came second. They had to.

But three days had passed with him avoiding her, not even looking at her, positioning himself so he couldn't see her whenever he could. And while she didn't know what action to take about Draco's various problems, she did know that more mundane and everyday matters – the play – were fast approaching, and they needed to practice.

That made things simpler, in a way; it gave her an easy solution, something uncomplicated and clear to do, even if it didn't answer any of the harder problems. Arranging a practice, persuading Draco that they _needed_ to practice, was something she could do something about. Or could at least _attempt_ to do something about, which was more than she could say for any of the other problems.

Letters hadn't worked; trying to catch up with him after one of their practices hadn't worked. Mainly because they'd started from the same point – the makeshift stage – and he'd been faster than she was. The answer was obvious: if she were sitting in the audience, where he'd have to pass her in order to get out of the room, it would be simple enough to block his escape and force him to speak to her. And then at least she could hope to arrange a practice.

Draco was in plenty of scenes that she wasn't in; all she had to do was find out when one of them was and go to watch the practice. With this in mind, she made her way down from the girls' dormitories in a cheerful mood on Saturday morning, four days after the kiss.

Some of the others were there already, chatting amiably in a loose circle. Probably waiting for their friends to get up before heading down to breakfast. Ginny and Parvati were deep in earnest conversation on a comfortable sofa, and Neville was listening to them with interest. Ron wasn't there – he must still be in bed – but Harry was, looking faintly crumpled and giving Hermione the distinct impression that he hadn't slept well. It would explain why he was up before she was.

After a moment's consideration, she resolved not to confront him about it. He didn't look too bad, chatting to Dean completely normally. She slipped into the seat beside Harry with a cheerful 'Morning,' and he gave her a smile.

'Morning,' he replied. 'Sleep well?'

She nodded, feeling a moment of tension rise up. Harry had gone slightly pink and was looking at the floor; obviously wondering what he'd say when she returned the question. He must have asked it automatically. Poor Harry. It had been like this last time he'd done Occlumency – she'd heard about it from Ron – broken sleep and nightmares from the resurfacing memories.

'I'm fine,' she said, and quickly changed the topic. 'Listen, Harry, do you have any rehearsals with Draco today? He's avoiding me again and I need to arrange to practice with him.'

'Is he being a pest?' Harry's expression was sympathetic. 'Sorry, Hermione, I don't have any rehearsals with him until Monday. Or possibly Tuesday, I can't quite remember…'

Hermione's heart sank. Monday was too far away; she had to speak to him as soon as possible. She was about to thank Harry foretelling her when Ginny cut into the conversation.

'Is that Malfoy you're asking about, Hermione?' she called, and Hermione nodded in reply. 'We're doing Act Four Scene One today – you know, the _double double toil and trouble_ bit. Just after lunch.'

The comfortable, glowing warmth of a plan coming to fruition settled itself in Hermione's chest. 'Perfect,' she said. 'Thanks, Ginny.'

* * *

'Swelter'd venom sleeping got, boil thou first in the charmed pot!' Blaise finished her chant, her eyes wide and sinister.

'Double, double, toil and trouble; fire burn and cauldron bubble!' the witches cried; and they must have been practicing, because they way they said it made Hermione shiver. It sounded as though their voices were echoing off the sides of some dark, dripping cave, stained green with moss and lichen; as though there were hundreds more witches lurking in the shadows, just out of sight – or perhaps in another world, brushing lightly against the fabric of reality. In the familiar classroom on a makeshift stage it was eerie; on a darkened stage, lit only by candlelight, it would be terrifying.

Ginny continued the chant, eyes glittering darkly as she made her way through 'eye of newt and toe of frog', and Hermione shivered again, this time with the sudden ominous feeling that she was being watched. She glanced sideways at Parvati, the only other person watching the rehearsal, but she was bent over her sketchpad, busily designing the costumes. Hermione glanced back to the stage, just in time for another 'Double, double, toil and trouble,' and immediately spotted who was watching her. Draco.

He was standing at the very back of the room, leaning against the wall in what was meant to be offstage, and watching her. He knew why she was there, of course. What other reason could she have to coming to watch a rehearsal? She'd seen his expression when she first walked into the practice room; he had looked afraid. Hunted.

Now his expression was blank; she met his eyes, but saw nothing in them. Was he even aware he was looking at her? He didn't seem to be. Hermione glanced around her, flushing slightly. She ought to try and get him to snap out of whatever private world he was in. What if he went insane in the middle of the rehearsal?

She opened her eyes wide and tried mouthing his name, 'Draco?'. He didn't move, and the witches' chant was ending. He couldn't miss his cue, after all. 'Draco' she mouthed again, and this time he blinked, realised what he'd been doing, and an array of expression battled over his face for a moment before he regained control enough to scowl darkly at her, a filthy look in his eyes. Hermione told herself that it didn't hurt, and sat back in her chair, glancing down to the floor.

'By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes!' Ginny shrieked, sending the momentarily quiet witches into a flurry of excitement. 'Open, locks, whoever knocks!' and that was Draco's cue.

He was composed as he strode onto the stage, his expression set into the perfect mask of darkness, amorality, lust for power, a glimmer of excitement and anticipation in his eyes. There was nothing left of the boy who had been staring blankly at her scant seconds before; Hermione marvelled at the change.

'How now, you secret, black and midnight hags!' He gave them a sweeping glance; they were still, silent, watching him. 'What is't you do?'

Their voices had the same darkly echoing quality, sinister and black as they spoke. 'A deed without a name.'

Hermione almost managed to lose herself in the acting; to forget that she was watching Draco and simply be watching Macbeth, charging the witches to answer what he would ask. But then she started noticing the way elegant, precise gestures of his hands, or the way his lips moved and smirked and curled, and that made her remember _those_ hands and _those_ lips, and she blinked hard and looked away. She couldn't think that. Not now.

'Hermione?'

Parvati's whisper, so close to her ear, made her jump. 'Sorry. What is it?' she asked, guiltily, glancing towards her roommate. Parvati was frowning; then she glanced up to the stage and her eyes widened.

'I was just wondering what you thought of these,' she whispered quickly, pushing a few pages of costume designs onto Hermione's lap. Hermione scooped up the parchment, thumbing through the designs as quietly as she could.

They were rather good; Parvati's sketches showed the witches dressed in detailed costumes, dark and tattered robes with random, bizarre things attached to them in places; stones, loops of wool and string, scraps of parchment, feathers, and what Hermione thought were leaves, among other things. She could picture the witches on opening night, prowling the stage in their weird costumes, and Hermione thought they'd look perfect.

'They're wonderful, Parvati,' she whispered back, shuffling the parchment to look at a blood-thirsty Ginny with the dangling threads of her costume swinging around her as she moved. 'They'll be perfect.'

'Thanks,' Parvati replied, blushing slightly as she took the papers back. 'I'm really glad they let me work on costumes.'

'Well, you're good at it,' Hermione replied with a smile. She'd had her costumes fitted just a few days ago; she needed three. Two dresses – one for when she was Queen, one for before – and a nightdress for her sleepwalking. All of them were incredibly beautiful; she felt like Lady Macbeth just wearing them.

'Show his eyes, and grieve his heart; come like shadows, so depart!' cried the witches in their eerie cacophony, and Hermione's attention was drawn back to the stage as Macbeth reacted in horror. He was really an impressive actor, and she wondered – not for the first time – whether that skill came from natural ability or from practice at hiding his feelings over Voldemort for so long. A bit of both, Hermione supposed. It struck her that she didn't even know how long Draco had been a Death Eater. How long had he been suffering like this, hiding it?

Draco was coming to the end of the scene. His tone was sharp, his eyes wide and glittering and just slightly mad, though whether that was acting or true madness Hermione didn't know. 'The castle of Macduff I will surprise;' he spat, 'seize upon Fife; give to the edge o' the sword his wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls that trace him in his line.'

Hermione couldn't help but shiver, closing her eyes as Draco finished his final lines and made his exit.

Megan was the first to speak, as usual. 'Excellent,' she said cheerfully, and nodded to the witches, who were loitering offstage. 'Especially you three, your speaking together was perfect. Much better than last time.'

'We practiced it for ages,' Ginny said with a grin.

'It shows,' Megan said with a rare smile. 'Does anyone have anything else to suggest?'

Ruth looked thoughtful. 'I thought the witches could have been a little more… I don't know…' She thought for a moment. 'Inhuman?'

'I thought they were scary enough already,' Stan chimed in The directors had their back to the audience, but Hermione could just see Stan's usual wide beaming smile, which was quite at odds with what he went on to say. 'You were _terrifying_. Any scarier and we'll be giving the poor little children nightmares.'

'It could be worth looking at,' Olivia offered from her seat beside Stan. 'It would fit well with the Elizabethan concept of the Great Chain of Being too. They believed that everything in existence had a place within a hierarchy or chain, with the King at the top, down to the lowest peasant. Witches were outside the Chain, making them…' She paused for a second, and Hermione could have sworn she shivered. 'Making them evil, inhuman… unnatural…'

She trailed off; Stan, who was sitting beside her, put a comforting hand on Olivia's arm; she breathed in – Hermione frowned, wishing she could see the directors' expressions – and seemed to pull herself together. 'I'm fine,' she said.

There was a very brief pause, before Megan took charge of the situation 'Alright,' she said, 'Would you care to try that? Just go up to the point where the witches vanish, we don't need to go further. Concentrate on being less human.'

Normally they'd have discussed it for longer, but Megan seemed to be attempting to distract attention from Olivia. Stan was giving her a friendly hug, and Ruth was leaning over; even Adrian was watching with a frown. The witches nodded quickly and got into position; Draco did the same, waiting offstage for his cue.

'Poor Olivia,' Parvati murmured as Blaise began, startling Hermione; she'd forgotten the other girl was there. Hermione frowned and leant closer, not wanting to disturb the actors, or the directors for that matter.

'What's wrong with her?' she asked.

Parvati looked bemused. 'Don't you know? Everyone was talking about it last year.'

Hermione thought, but couldn't remember anything more than a vague impression of having heard that someone had died. She never really paid much attention to gossip.

'Ah, well,' Parvati shrugged, 'it was near exam time, you were probably lost in your books.'

'Did someone die?' Hermione asked. 'I remember that, but I haven't a clue what it has to do with her getting upset now…'

Parvati leant back in her hair, sucking in her cheeks and considering. 'Her father died,' she said, 'but that was just how the word got out, really. Do you know anything about her family? Well, she's half-blood – Muggle father, Pureblood mother. Anyway, her mother never told her father she was a witch – he was a bit, you know,' Parvati raised an eyebrow. 'Easily prejudiced. Didn't like odd things or unusual people, so her mother kept quiet about it,'

Hermione had a bad feeling about this story. 'What happened?' she asked.

'Olivia's accidental magic. Made their – what's that Muggle contraption? – their television levitate. So of course her mother had to tell him, and, well… you can imagine what happened.' Parvati shook her head sadly.

'He didn't take it well?' Hermione asked, glancing back to the directors with a painfully tight feeling in her chest. She was lucky; her parents, once they'd been convinced it wasn't some elaborate joke, had seen magic as a new and absolutely fascinating thing to learn about. If they'd reacted like Olivia's father…

'They got divorced when she was seven,' Parvati sighed beside her. 'Poor girl. And it's all so silly, too. Hating people just because they're different, I mean.'

Back on the stage, the witches were just finishing their potion, their ominous chanting making Hermione shiver. Draco was watching her again; she met his silvery gaze for less than a second before he tore his eyes away.

'Yes,' she said thoughtfully, 'it is.'

It was Draco's cue then, and he strode purposefully onto the stage. Hermione intended to watch him, certain that at some point he'd glance her way or falter in a movement, or something that would betray a little of what he was thinking. But the scene was too dramatic, and by the time he came to his last lines and exit Hermione realised she'd been completely absorbed in the play. She frowned, rubbing her arms, conscious of the eerie prickling cold that had seeped over her.

'I thought that was better,' Megan said, smiling and glancing sideways. Olivia seemed fine now, but Megan continued anyway. 'I think we can leave that there for now. Don't forget to practice, and we'll see you at the next rehearsals.'

The directors started packing their things away – lazy Adrian always, ironically, the fastest to get his things together – and Hermione immediately got to her feet, eyes fixed on Draco. She couldn't let him leave the room without speaking to her, and after positioning herself in the aisle, she was between him and the door.

The others slowly trickled past her, chatting in their groups, and left the room. Hermione was surprised; she'd expected Draco to try and escape her, she had been prepared to put up a fight. But he seemed to be hanging back deliberately. He wasn't meeting her eyes either; glancing sideways at her, quickly – almost nervous – before looking back down at his bag, or the floor, or the stage.

Hermione spoke first. 'Can we talk?' she asked. It was as awkward as she'd expected; the memory of what had happened was almost a tangible presence, curling thickly in the air, and she couldn't think of a single thing to say. She opened her mouth to speak, but a wave of memory passed over her, and she shivered and closed her mouth.

This would not do. She had to help him, and she couldn't do that if she went to pieces like a silly schoolgirl whenever she spoke to him. 'We need to practice,' she said confidently. 'When are you free?'

He shrugged, running his fingers along the top of one of the tables and not looking at her. 'Most of today,' he said, voice quiet. 'Except for just after dinner, I have another rehearsal. And I'm busy later than that, too.'

He said the last part casually, but Hermione was watching his hands and saw the way he gripped the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening as his fingers curled tightly around the wood.

'Busy with what?' she asked.

His eyes very nearly met hers; she had a fleeting impression of his dark grey eyes, clouded by conflict and fear, before he twisted himself sharply away from her. His shoulders sagged wearily, and Hermione realised that they had been tensed before, though she hadn't noticed at the time.

'You _know_ what,' he said. 'You're intelligent. You can guess.'

'A Death Eater meeting,' she said carefully, and Draco flinched sharply, fingernails digging into the wood of the desk. Hermione felt her fingers twitch in response; the sudden, natural urge to reach out to him, to comfort him…

She mustn't.

At that moment it felt like the worst thing imaginable. There was nothing she could say to help him; no words could change what he had to face; no reassurances could ease his fear and guilt and confusion – and she knew he felt those things, because she could read them in the tight line of his jaw, in the set of his shoulders. And, words having failed her, she couldn't even reach out and touch him, couldn't even offer that meagre comfort, because touching him could only make things worse.

Hermione couldn't remember being Petrified in second year – she remembered nothing between seeing the Basilisk's eyes reflected in the mirror and being revived by Madam Pomfrey – but she had tried to imagine it, and this was what it would be like. Mute, unable to speak or move or act, trapped in the prison of her mind with no way of affecting the outside world. Except that she wasn't trapped by a Basilisk's stare, but by the grim and certain knowledge that there was nothing she could do.

It was fortunate, then, that Draco broke the silence. 'Snape knows,' he remarked, and Hermione glanced up sharply. He couldn't know she'd told him, could he? He didn't look accusatory, or sound it, but she wouldn't trust that, now with Draco's mind in the state it was in.

'How did he find out?' she asked, as casually as she could muster.

He looked at her then, glancing over his shoulder and to Hermione surprise he appeared amused. Although his fingernails didn't stop digging into the table. 'I was expecting you to ask what he knew,' he remarked, and Hermione felt a guilty flush run through her.

'I, er…' she began, before pulling herself together. 'I thought I was supposed to have guessed. I was hoping to pick it up from what you said next,' she explained, trying to sound apologetic rather than lying. He seemed to accept it; at the least, he turned his face away again.

'He said he'd realised from watching me at meetings,' Draco said lightly, his fingertips skimming over the dents left in the wood of the tabletop. Hermione had to close her eyes hard and look away. 'You can guess what he realised. And you knew he was a spy for your side.' It was a statement, not a question. Hermione nodded before realising he couldn't see her.

'I knew,' she agreed. Her mouth was unusually dry, her tongue sticking to her teeth. 'What… what has he said to you about it?'

'We've met a few times,' Draco said, his voice empty. 'He tries to help.' He glanced at her again, over his shoulder, then warily turned and sat on the table's edge. His head was lowered, but he watched her for a moment, eyes darker than usual.

'Is he any help?' she asked, feeling a small bubble of hope rise in her heart. If Draco was at least getting help from someone, if her betrayal of his secret wasn't in vain…

'Sometimes,' Draco said, watching his feet. He was swinging them back and forth under the table like a five-year-old would. A tarnished, sullied five-year-old, with the blood of innocents on his hands and the weight of the Dark Mark on his arm.

'Sometimes he helps. I think he understands what it's like a little. He knows how… he knows how hard it is. Other times he just confuses things.' He sighed, curling his hands into fists and pressing them to his forehead. 'I wish things could just go back to normal. When everything was simple. We were right, and you were wrong, and things were that easy, but now…?' He raised his head, looked directly at her, his face a war between amusement and desperation. 'Look at me. I'm confiding in a _Mudblood_.'

Hermione winced at the slur. It felt as though he had stabbed a needle of ice into her heart, a cold, piercing pain. 'Does it really matter that I'm Muggleborn?' she asked sharply.

'Yes,' Draco replied honestly. He was meeting her gaze, though his shoulders were drooping, despairing; his eyes locked onto hers as though they were clinging to a lifeline, as though he would drown if he looked away. 'And no. I don't know if you're human. I don't… I don't…'

'Draco…' Hermione began, her fingers twitching again as she longed to touch him. 'Draco look at me. Of course I'm human. You know I am. You must know, _somewhere_, else you wouldn't lo-'

She cut herself off mid-word, the silence ringing around them, as though it had expected to be filled and now found itself inexplicably emptied.

'Or I could be some kind of freak,' Draco pointed out quite calmly. 'Twisted, somehow. Maybe there's something wrong with me.'

'There's nothing _wrong_ with you,' she said desperately. 'Nothing at all.'

Draco raised an eyebrow. 'I'm going _insane_.'

'You know what I meant. Apart from that.' Hermione replied. 'I mean there's nothing wrong with… well, feeling something. For me.' Her throat was tight; she swallowed nervously. 'Draco…'

'But how do I _know_ that?' he asked, raising his head, eyes searching hers. 'How do I know that there's nothing wrong with me? How am I meant to know that you're human, that anyone's human, how am I meant to know what human really means? Because no one seems to know! Everyone just… just says that whatever they approve of is human, and whatever they disapprove of is inhuman, and no one agrees, no one can agree and I don't know who's right…'

He broke off with a ragged gasp, his eyes wide and pleading, despair etched into every line of his face, and in that second Hermione's self-control snapped. She couldn't _not_ touch him, not when he looked like that, not when he needed her, and before she could so much as think out how he would react, she was beside him, kneeling on the floor by his side, with one of her hands on his back and the other gently cupping his cheek.

'Draco, please…' she managed to say, before reality caught up with her and she froze. 'Draco?'

His eyes were closed, tightly shut as though trying to block out the world, and his breathing was too shallow. The contact between him – the softness of his cheek under her hand, the warmth of his back, of his skin – the places where they touched seemed to be the most important things in the world: the centre, for a short time, of a dizzy, wild universe as it span sickeningly out of control.

Without opening his eyes, Draco reached up, groping blindly at her hand on his cheek. She let him remove it without protest, but the cold air seemed to burn against her skin with the warmth of his body removed. She found herself gulping in a deep breath of air, suddenly dizzy with lack of oxygen. Draco's eyes remained closed.

'Stars, hide your fires,' he whispered, so quietly she could hardly hear him, 'let not light see my black and deep desires.'

That jolted her back into reality, and she tore her hand from his back, staggered to her feet. 'I should go,' she whispered, feeling nothing but a dark blankness in the pit of her heart; she turned to the leave.

'Wait.'

The word was spoken in the same soft whisper, so quietly she half-believed it was her imagination, wishing so hard for him to call her back that it had transformed the merest breath or draught of wind into that word. But when she glanced over her shoulder, he was standing behind her, eyes open and watching her uncertainly. There was fear in his expression, in the way he stood, in the tense twisting of the edge of one sleeve.

She waited.

He moved towards her, and before she could react he had stepped close to her – so close! – and tentatively wrapped his arms around her, his fists clutching the fabric at the back of her robes. She gasped in surprise and breathed in the smell of his skin, dizzying, unexpected. Her own arms went around him as much to keep herself from falling as for any other reason.

There could be any number of reasons, but she didn't question. She didn't want to question. Hermione closed her eyes, skin tingling where it met the warmth from his body, conscious of the curve of his arms about her, the light tickle of his breath, the hard lumps that were his fists at the base of her neck.

'I'm afraid,' he whispered, and it was all she could do not to shiver at the sound. 'Of the meeting. I don't want… I don't want to hurt anyone else. I don't want to kill again. I don't… the _screaming_, Hermione…'

'Don't go,' she replied, hr voice a whisper because she could raise it no further. 'You could stay here. Dumbledore would help you…'

He drew back at that, and her skin cried out, bereft but for where his hands remained on her shoulders. 'You know I can't,' he replied. 'You know what he would do to me if I… You know what he did to Snape. He would do the same to me. I don't want to… I am afraid…' He closed his eyes, breathing. 'I've tortured too many people, Hermione; I don't want to be tortured myself. And he will torture me, he _will_ hurt me. I can't…'

'We could protect you,' she said again. 'Dumbledore would. And isn't it better to risk being hurt yourself than to keep on hurting so many other people?'

He flinched. 'Don't ask me that,' he said roughly, taking a step back; the contact between them was broken. 'I can't… I'm not brave, Hermione. And for all I know it's right to torture them. They're Mudbloods, after all…'

'So am I,' Hermione said. He didn't react; merely closed his eyes, sharply, then glanced back up at her. She sighed. 'Think about it,' she said. 'You know where Dumbledore's office is. Or you can go to Snape. Or me, if you want to. We can help you, Draco.'

'I know, he whispered, and turned to go, leaving Hermione alone in the empty room.

* * *

Hermione awoke the next morning with a memory in her mind, unable to tell whether it was a vivid dream or reality.

The forsaken hours of the early morning. Being awoken by a warm arm around her waist, the not-quite-there pressure of a body barely inches from her, lying parallel to her, almost pressed against her back.

Draco's whisper in her ear, desperate, despairing, 'He made me kill two tonight.'

And turning over, wrapping an arm around him in return, falling back asleep again in warm blankets and pillows and sheets and skin.

By the time she had showered and dressed, the memory had completely slipped her mind.

* * *

**AN: **And now I am going to go study like mad.

Because I've been a little introspective lately, here's a question to all my fellow writers: why do we write? What motivates you to write, what inspires you, where do you get your ideas from? Do you find it easy or hard to get ideas? Do you find certain parts easier then others – like I find characters easier to form than plots? What does writing mean to you?

Yes, open-ended, I know. Ramble at me. Review!


	21. Act Five, Scene Three

Macbeth: Act Five, Scene Three

**Disclaimer: **It's past midnight; therefore I'll leave it with saying that no, I don't own Harry Potter, nor do I own Macbeth. J.K.Rowling and Shakespeare respectively have those honours. But rally, 21 chapters in, you should know that!

**Thanks for 1161 reviews goes to: **KawaiiRyu, INSANELUNATIC, Calixte Ammonian, chibi oniyuri, Orchid 6297, Sunflower18, Kou Shun'u, Lisi, samhaincat, Maibe Josie, Tayz, Ladelle, Falmariel, CrystalDragonfly, StoneageHottie, cuznhottie, astareos, Alexi Lupin (x2), Mirwen Sunrider, elektra30, Medea Callous, Catelina (x2), moonsome, innocenteen, Moralinde, Iza Ridell, pat-nosferatu, kazhdu, sashlea, NotreDamegirlie, Plaidly Lush, Highlandcoo, blurredcat, UNOWEN, heavengurl899, AnneChristy, randomperson, Ickis Krumm, Flavagurl, MartiIsSoCool, Mashiara Sedai, Opalfire, SilverMoonset, ToOtHpIcK, thesnowcrane, your illusion 02, sycoticatalyst, horseluver13, MiRoRmInX, hidden relevance, gracie5142, langocska, MysticStar7037, brittany, Taintless, Jeccia, Gina, Munching Munchkin Management, pensive puddles, Diana Artemis Silvermoon, Nikki, AniDragon, aka Riona-chan, G Madison, ali-lou, .Nyome., Janie Granger, julia (x2), jules37, Madam Midnight, leafsfan4eva, willowfairu, Alyana Enders, Jessi, Saotoshi (x2), Lady Jayne, Jess, soul-simplicity, Rebecca15, NekoYami.

**A/N: **And I'm back! Though as I note above, I'm writing this note after midnight, so it may not make all that much sense.

After this chapter, there are – all things going to plan – _three more chapters_ of Macbeth to go. There is also a little over a month before Half Blood Prince comes out (are you excited?) Considering that this fic will be, obviously, AU when HBP comes out, I'm planning to try and finish it in the next two weeks (having no school), then I can get a bit of editing done and have it utterly finished just in time for the new book to render it all incorrect. Ah, the joys of fanfiction. I'm going to try and get a chapter of Fallen done too, but no promises. Reassure yourselves with the thought that there will be plenty of unbroken weeks of Fallen after this, though, while I'm planning the next fic.

The mystery of YD is solved – it was apparently an ultimate insult thing you can find on the web, so not written personally by him/her. Which is reassuring, because at least I know there isn't a psychopath out there after me.

The exams have all gone okay so far – we had some absolute gifts of questions – and I only have one to go, which is Biology. Wish me luck!

I'd also like to note that I now own _four copies_ of Macbeth. Including a pocket-size version. In green leather, for Slytherin. What this says about my sanity, you must decide for yourself.

Onto the fic, and it's a longer than usual chapter this time! Enjoy!

* * *

His hands were uncomfortably tight around her wrists; the skin cold and slightly clammy, and she could feel a too-fast pulse beating where his flesh met hers. Whether it was his heartbeat or her own, Hermione didn't know.

'Blood hath been shed ere now, in the olden time,' Draco began, his eyes locked firmly on hers. His voice was low and resonant, loud enough to carry to the end of the Great Hall but still managing to carry a sinisterly dark air.

They were about halfway into the banquet scene, just after the first appearance of the freshly-murdered Banquo's ghost. It was one of Hermione's favourite scenes, or had been until Draco's condition had put a darkly ironic cast on the whole thing.

'Ere human statute purged the gentle weal. Ay, and since too…' His pause was slightly too long, and Hermione was the only one to see she slight shake, feel his shudder, 'murders have been performed, too terrible for the ear,' he reached up to gently stroke the side of her face that was visible to the audience. Hermione flexed the hand he'd just released, glad that the tables set up for the banquet hid the action from the others. She didn't need to explain why he'd been clinging to her wrist so tightly.

He stepped away from her, releasing the other hand, shaking his head fearfully. 'The times have been that, when the brains were out, the man would die, and there an end; but now they rise again with twenty mortal murders on their crowns and push us from our stools.' Stepping further backwards, he reached a chair on the very edge of the royal table, half-falling into it and raising his hands to his lips, then round to rest on his neck. 'This is more strange than such a murder is,' he finished, eyes never moving from her face, his voice shaking slightly, every word clearly formed as though he was fighting to say them.

Hermione moved forward, bending slightly beside him. 'My worthy lord,' she told him pointedly, 'your noble friends do lack you.'

At right angles to the royal table, forming a rough T-shape, was the lord's table. On the night of the actual performance it would be covered with food, provided lovingly by the house elves, but this was only a rehearsal and for now it was bare apart from the goblets needed for the toast. The assorted nobles – mainly fifth-years who had failed to get a part or only had a few lines – were sitting along both edges of it, pretending to talk amongst themselves and throwing curious looks at the conversation between their king and queen.

'I do forget,' Draco said, sighing, then closed his eyes as if pulling himself together before getting to his feet. Hermione stood also and moved back, suddenly fighting not to sneeze. The stage was newly completed, and the smell of fresh paint choked the air.

'Do not muse at me, my most worthy friends,' Draco began, his voice loud and cheerful, smiling at the lords as he moved down the left side of the table. He brushed aside his fit of madness with a flippant gesture, saying, 'I have a strange infirmity, which is nothing to those that know me. Come, love and health to all; then I'll sit down.'

With a gesture to Hermione, he added, 'Come, give me some wine, fill full.' That was her cue to give her best hostess' smile and pour his glass. There was a pitcher of water on the table – on the night it'd be fruit juice mixed to look like proper wine, blood red – from which she filled his goblet. Moving back to stand behind the table, he took it from her hand and raised it high. 'I drink to the general health of the whole table, and to our dear friend Banquo, whom we miss…' He paused again, his smile fading, but picked himself up. Or at least, he was supposed to; Hermione could see the flicker in his eye, the tight curl of his fingers around the stem of the goblet, as they had been around her wrist, earlier. 'Would he were here! To all, and him, we thirst, and all to all.'

The assorted lords raised their goblets in reply, and spoke – not synchronised; the directors had spent weeks telling them not to; it sounded more realistic if they didn't. 'Our duties, and the pledge.'

They drank, and at the precise instant that Draco touched the goblet to his lips the Ghost of Banquo appeared, transparent and shimmering slightly, sitting in the single stool meant to be left empty for Macbeth with a ghostly goblet mockingly raised to Macbeth.

Draco froze for the briefest instant, then shrieked 'Avaunt!' and flung the goblet at the stool, water flying everywhere, splattering the lords who cursed and gasped in surprise. 'And quit my sight!' Draco half-pleaded, half-screamed. He staggered backwards, towards the right wall, his voice becoming desperate. 'Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold…'

He wasn't meant to pause.

'Thy bones are…' Hermione, as Lady Macbeth, was meant to be watching with a mixture of concern and ill-concealed anger, but something in her stomach froze.

'Thy blood…' She saw him swallow, saw the glazing look in his eyes as he stared at the mocking, terrifying image of the Ghost, saw the way the lords' expressions of puzzlement at Macbeth's insane behaviour turned to real confusion, and she knew. 'Thy blood is cold…'

His lips kept moving, but no sound came out. 'Draco?' That was Megan, polite bewilderment in her voice. 'Are you okay?'

He didn't respond; Hermione knew she had to do something. 'Draco?' she called, and getting no reaction, crossed the stage to him. He didn't even see her approach; he was staring at the Ghost's image. Any second he'd crack further, say something damning, something that would lead to suspicion at best and discovery at worst…

'Draco!' she called again, and reached out to shake his shoulder. He jumped, and blinked at her, attention turned away from the Ghost's image. Hermione felt she could have collapsed with relief, but they needed an explanation for what had happened. Thinking quickly, she asked, 'Did you go dizzy again?'

'Hermione?' he asked, blinking at her. 'What?'

She was acutely aware that everyone was staring at them. 'Did you go dizzy?' she repeated, meeting his eyes, willing him to realise what she was trying to do, to go along with it. 'Like you did the other day? That dizzy spell?'

'Dizzy…' His eyes flicked sideways, took in the curious fifth-year lords craning to see; the directors, distant at the back of the Great Hall, and she saw a spark of realisation in his eyes. 'Oh, yes.' He raised a hand to the side of his head as though it hurt, blinking; she could still see the shards of fear and horror in his eyes.

'Do you need to go and see Madam Pomfrey?' Ruth asked in concern.

'Oh, no, I'm fine now.' Draco assured her with a warm smile. Hermione knew it was a false one, put on to reassure, but she doubted anyone else could tell. Not without knowing what was going on, not unless they knew Draco well enough. 'It happened once or twice before, I'm fine once it's cleared up.'

Ruth frowned. 'Still, if it keeps happening and you don't know why, you should go and see Madam Pomfrey. Someone who can help sort it out,' told him firmly.

'After all,' added Stan with a grin, 'we can't have you going dizzy on us in the performance, can we? And it's only a week away.'

'I'll go straight after the rehearsal, I promise,' Draco said with a calming smile. Megan nodded her approval.

'Alright, then, we'll go from the toast. Backstage crew? You alright with that?'

One of the seventh-year boys poked his head out from the wings. 'You could just call me Peter, you know,' he remarked with a grin. 'And it's all fine for me.'

'Just don't let that goblet hit anyone when it goes flying.' Megan remarked darkly. 'Alright then, from the toast.'

Peter picked up the goblet from where it had fallen – or been carefully guided by a few clever spells – and held it out to Hermione, who was nearest. As she collected it from him with a polite thank-you, she noticed her hand was shaking. It had been so close, so close to discovery. If they hadn't believed it was merely a dizzy spell, if Draco had said something incriminating, if he hadn't snapped out of it so easily. They had been lucky.

Trying hard not to spill the water, she refilled the goblet for him. They couldn't expect their luck to hold out. Next time this happened, there was no guarantee he wouldn't say something incriminating. It could happen anywhere – in a class, at lunch, in another rehearsal, in his common room with her nowhere near him to help. And if he was found out…

She handed the goblet to him, staring at the way the surface of the water shook and shattered, until she felt his hand close around the goblet, brushing her skin, and her breath caught, and she looked up at him, startled. His eyes were rough grey, scattered with a dark pain that was all too familiar in that gaze, like the sky before a storm.

'Thank you,' he said as he lifted the goblet from her hands, and Hermione was the only one who knew that he wasn't thanking her for refilling the goblet.

* * *

Hermione rubbed her thumb along the edge of a page, not even reading what was written on it. Even the reassuring pages of _Hogwarts, A History_ were failing to distract her. Ron and Harry had been better, because at least they could call her out of her thoughts if she started worrying while they were there, but they had gone to Quidditch practice over an hour ago, and Hermione had managed to read barely five pages of her book before concern for Draco took over her thoughts.

The performance of the play was rushing ever closer, and after the performance came the Christmas holidays, and holidays meant that Draco would be going home to his father. She had tried to help him, as much as she could, but his near slip in the rehearsal had proven that he was getting worse. He'd always managed to hide it around people before now.

And what if he slipped in front of his father? Even in Hogwarts, where he had schoolwork to distract him and Hermione to help, he couldn't keep his sanity together that long. For a day, perhaps, but even a week was out of the question, and the holidays were over a fortnight. He would slip, eventually; it was only a matter of time. And his father would find out all about Draco's insanity, find out that the killing of Muggles and Muggleborns was driving him mad, even find out about her own part in it all, find out that his son felt… felt something for a Muggleborn girl.

What would he do? Hermione didn't know very much about Draco's relationship with his father, but she couldn't picture a man like Lucius Malfoy taking the discovery with a compassionate smile and an assurance that Draco didn't have to kill anyone if he didn't want to. At best, he would reinforce the view that Muggles were worthless, inhuman, that Draco should enjoy torturing them like a sport, and ruin any progress Draco had made in tearing down those prejudices. At worst?

Hermione didn't want to imagine the worst that Lucius Malfoy could do.

She didn't want to let Draco go home. He should stay here, at Hogwarts, where she could help him, and do what she could to help him lose his prejudices, and maybe, between them, she and Snape could persuade him to leave Voldemort. But she had asked him before if he wanted to stay, and he'd refused to, looking torn and edgy as he had done. He was a Malfoy, he'd said; he had to do as his father wished, and his father wished him to come home. For Dark Arts training and servitude to Voldemort, Hermione had suspected but hadn't asked.

But he was also Draco, just Draco, and Hermione knew that if she let him go back home she would regret it forever.

She didn't have long until the end of term; they had less than a week until the play was performed and the day after that they went home. Hermione's heart sank; there was no way she could persuade him to remain at school, not in that amount of time. She would try, of course; there was nothing she could do but try, but how would she manage it? Perhaps if she-

'Hermione? Hello?'

The voice startled her; she glanced upwards to see Ron, his face still flushed from flying, a bottle of Butterbeer in each hand. He was frowning at her, but grinned in amusement when she looked up at him. 'So you are awake, then. Thought you'd mastered the art of sleeping with your eyes open for a minute there,' he joked good-naturedly, holding out the bottle of Butterbeer towards her. She took it with a smile, and Ron settled into the seat beside her.

'How was Quidditch practice?' she asked – it was the first question that came to her head, and it was such a safe, innocuous topic to talk about. One that was very unlikely to veer into dangerous areas, such as Draco, Death Eaters or insanity. 'You've finished a bit early, haven't you?' She was about to ask where Harry was, but remembered he had an Occlumency lesson.

'Yeah, well, have you seen the weather?' Ron asked, gesturing towards the window with his Butterbeer. The sky outside was dark, a textured darkness which suggested bands of storm clouds, and Hermione realised she could hear the hissing, ghostly noise of rain hurtling through the air. 'Not exactly the best flying conditions, are they?' Ron remarked.

'I'm surprised you stayed out this long,' Hermione replied, frowning at Ron. He wasn't wet – a drying spell, she expected – but that was no excuse for flying around in the rain. 'You must have been freezing.'

'Well, flying warms you up a bit,' Ron said, shrugging it off. 'I'm more surprised that you didn't notice. What book were you reading?' He reached for the book on her lap and tugged it towards him; she let it slide onto his knee. '_These particles can last for up to six months after leaving the school, though they can be instantaneously removed by a potion – as in the case of a 14th century Headmaster, who was thrown out of the school_ – hang on. _Hogwarts, A History,_ right?' he guessed, looking up at her and grinning when she nodded.

'You know me too well,' Hermione complained.

'Nope. Harry said you were reading it when we left. He also said you were around the beginning, which means…' He flicked back a few pages. 'You've either finished the book and started again, or read about three pages.'

Hermione felt herself flush. 'Well, I got distracted, thinking about things. You know what I'm like.'

'Damn,' Ron remarked cheerfully, and seeing Hermione's expression, explained. 'Harry and me had a bet on; I owe him three Sickles.'

'You had a bet on about how much I'd read?' Hermione asked, feeling strangely amused.

'Not exactly. I said you'd be reading while we were practicing, and he said you'd try to read but get distracted,' Ron clarified. He took a sip of his Butterbeer, watching her with a curious frown on his face, before asking, 'What were you thinking about, anyway?'

'Oh… nothing very much,' Hermione answered, feeling rather uncomfortable. She didn't like lying; even though she knew she couldn't tell Ron the truth, lying still made her feel guilty. 'Just schoolwork and things. Daydreaming.'

He gave an oddly triumphant grin. 'Nope,' he remarked cheerfully, 'don't believe you. You're worried about something,' he added without pausing, not giving Hermione time to react. 'Harry and me were talking about it on the way to Quidditch practice, trying to work out what.' He took a gulp of his Butterbeer, keeping his eyes on Hermione; he looked slightly amused, but mostly curious with a touch of concern. After years of being friends with Ron, Hermione knew what he was thinking.

'I'm just worried about the play,' she found herself saying, feeling her cheeks tinge red again at the lie. 'I mean, we don't have long left, and what if I forget my lines-'

But Ron was shaking his head. 'We thought about that,' he said, giving her a long look over the top of his Butterbeer bottle. 'And we thought that if you were worried about the play, you'd be like you were before the auditions – running everywhere in a state and muttering bits of it under your breath. And you aren't worried about Harry either, because when you worry about him you keep watching him without realising you're doing it and asking how he is when he come in the room.'

Hermione opened her mouth to argue, then, defeated, she shut it again. 'You know me too well,' she complained, which was greeted by a muffled laugh from Ron. For something to do, she sipped her drink.

'And you tell us what you're worried about, normally,' he added. 'Or you tell me at least, if you're worrying about Harry. But this time you haven't. Which makes us worried because, well, it must be something important, mustn't it?'

Hermione glanced away, looking sideways at the dying fire, down to ominously glowing red embers by now. If she was truthful, she wanted to tell Ron, and Harry too. She'd never liked keeping secrets from them, and she really, really wanted help. Not even necessarily someone to help her figure out what to do, or to take some of the burden of helping Draco off her shoulders. Snape could do that. What she really wanted, right at that moment, was someone who'd just understand. A bit of sympathy and support.

Except that if she told him Ron would probably be too angry that Draco was a Death Eater – and worried for her safety - to give her sympathy. And she couldn't betray Draco's secret. For his own good, to Snape, that was justifiable: to Ron, for her own relatively unnecessary wants, it would be wrong.

'Hermione?' came Ron's patient voice. 'You were drifting off again.'

'Sorry,' she said with a sigh, swirling the Butterbeer in its bottle. 'I was just thinking.'

'See? This is exactly what I mean,' Ron said, his expression growing more serious. He sighed and leant back in his chair, rubbing a finger pensively around the rim of the bottle. 'You know you can tell us anything, Hermione, don't you?'

She smiled, at that. Not only for the sentiment of it and the reassurance of knowing that Harry and Ron cared about her, but for the fact that it was so predictably what the boys would say. It wasn't much of a reassurance, anyway, as she'd known that already and it didn't make it any more possible to tell them what the problem was.

'Harry suggested you say that, didn't he?' Hermione asked, guessing. 'Or you decided on it together.'

Ron frowned a little. 'Well, yeah. Most of it was his idea, pretty much. But you know I really do mean it, don't you?' he added quickly, glancing up to catch her eyes; his gaze was sincere and a little worried.

'Of course I know,' Hermione replied, a smile coming to her face and a warmth curling inside her that wasn't wholly due to the Butterbeer.

'Good,' Ron replied cheerfully, taking a sip of his Butterbeer before setting it down on the table and sitting back in his seat, glancing her way. Hermione had the sudden uncomfortable feeling that he was waiting for her to speak. She opened her mouth, about to say something, but closed it again. How could she explain that she couldn't tell him?

'And I really, really do want to tell you everything,' she began, thinking that at least that made a good beginning. Ron nodded, obviously wanting to be a good friend, and leant forwards slightly. Hermione took a breath. 'But I can't tell anyone.'

Ron jumped in before she had a chance to explain. 'You can tell us,' he said earnestly. 'Anything. It doesn't matter if it's really bad, we won't-'

'I can't tell anyone about this,' she repeated again, meeting his gaze firmly. 'Because… well, I'm worried about someone. And it's really his problem, not mine, and I can't tell you because it'd be betraying his secret,' she explained, watching Ron frown and feeling a little uneasy. She knew he only wanted to help, and she knew she was probably worrying him and Harry by being so preoccupied, but she couldn't help that; betraying Draco's secret would be worse.

'Alright,' Ron sighed, defeated. 'Can't you at least tell me who it is you're worried about?'

Hermione bit her lip. If she did, she'd have to explain so much, and Ron would be even more concerned and possibly angry, and he'd jump to conclusions that would, unfortunately, be the right ones. Or at least as far as Draco being a Death Eater went; she didn't think he'd guess the insanity part.

'I can't tell you that either; you'd guess,' she apologised. 'It isn't anyone you know well.'

He frowned a little, as though trying to work it out, but then gave up and shrugged. He still didn't look happy. 'Alright,' he said, 'but I still wish you could tell us.'

'I will when I can,' Hermione promised, thinking that if would be more appropriate than when. 'Do you fancy a game of chess before Harry gets back?' she asked, hoping to distract him.

Besides, she still had to figure out what to do about Draco.

* * *

The meagre week she had left passed all too quickly, an endless round of schoolwork and rehearsals, friends, meetings and lessons bringing her with an almost terrifying speed to the day of the performance.

The corridors of Hogwarts were filled with excitement; if it hadn't been a Saturday the teachers would have been forced to cancel classes. The first years chased each other screaming through the corridors, and playing at murder and prophecy in a manner that only the young and innocent can manage. The older years, those who weren't involved in the production, were sharing endless rumours: who was the best actor, who was coming to watch, what the costumes looked like.

It seemed half of wizarding England was coming; tickets had gone on sale for four Galleons - all proceeds to St Mungo's. Everyone involved with the play was racing around the school, attending last minute rehearsals, checking and double-checking their costumes were ready and prepared, muttering lines under their breath.

The directors were all exhibiting various degrees of tension and stress, of course, with the notable exception of Adrian, who had slept through half of a last-minute practice of the Porter's speech. Hermione hadn't been there, but rumour had numerous different suggestions as to what Megan had hexed him with, each one more inventive than the last; whatever she'd done, it had singed his eyebrows off.

Lunch was to be an hour late, to allow time for the final full dress rehearsal to run through. They were very nearly at the end of it, and Hermione could predict what was going through her fellow actor's minds – that the next time they stood on this stage, saying these lines, it would be night time, and the familiar house tables before them would be replaced with row upon row of silent chairs filled with people; dark, shadowy faces merging into one anonymous crowd with a thousand glistening, hungry eyes. It sounded like a horror film.

Hermione wondered if, out of all of them, she was the only one with worries on her mind that weren't connected to the play.

Not that she wasn't nervous, of course, but the uneasy nausea in her stomach was overpowered by a blinder, basic fear. Not the fear of embarrassment, or the fear of forgetting a line and looking foolish; the simple, ancient fear, more primitive and almost wordless, of danger to someone she cared about.

Draco.

Tomorrow was the last day of term. Tomorrow she would watch Draco leave from Kings Cross station with his parents, hiding something that he could not keep hidden, and when it was found out… Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, as the speech went. She had until tomorrow.

It wasn't enough time. She was watching him, now, from the wings, making sure to keep well out of the way of where the audience would be able to see her – it didn't do to get into bad habits, especially not when Megan was watching. They were just reaching the point where the images of Banquo's descendants were appearing to the horrified Macbeth, and Draco's acting was, as usual, flawless. Hermione sighed, watching him move across the stage, his words and movements telling her nothing. At least he hadn't suffered another attack of insanity. Touch wood.

She was well aware that her time was running out. If she was going to stop him leaving she had to do it tonight, because there was no guarantee that she'd see him the next morning. But what more could she do? Asking him to stay at Hogwarts hadn't worked. She'd carefully pointed out that he couldn't keep himself sane for the whole holiday, that sooner or later his parents would find out, and then what would they do? She'd tried pleading, begging; she would have threatened him if she could think of any threat great enough. He already had the fear of being forced to kill over his head, the fear of what his parents would do; if that couldn't stop him, what could?

Always, he had been hesitant, hadn't managed to meet her eyes, had told her that he couldn't stay because of what Voldemort would do, or what his parents would do, or – when she was annoying him – because he ought to be killing Mudbloods, it was what was right. He sounded a little more uneasy when he said that, though.

Which was progress, but progress that would mean nothing at all if she lost him now.

Hermione watched him, as if by watching hard enough she could make an answer appear on his forehead, the secret which would win him over, make him stay, safe with her at Hogwarts.

It was only because she was watching so intently that she noticed it.

'The castle of Macduff I will surprise,' he declared, his expression dark, the look of a man on the edge of Hell, 'Seize upon Fife, give to the edge of the sword his wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls that trace him in his line,' and with that declaration it happened. He flinched, so slightly it was barely noticeable, and his hand twitched ever so slightly in the direction of his arm.

His left arm.

Hermione felt her breath catch in her throat; she glanced round nervously. Had anyone else seen? No; most of them were further backstage; she'd left them practicing lines and exploring. Draco had barely even paused in his speech, and no one had leapt to their feet and accused him of being a Death Eater. Hermione glanced out again, nervously; had she seen it? Had it been her imagination? It had only bee the smallest of flinches, barely noticeable, but…

'Come, bring me where they are,' Draco finished, an arm around Lennox's shoulders, and Hermione realised they were leaving by the entrance she stood at. Terry Boot, who was playing Lennox, gave Draco a grin and a whispered, 'Good scene!' before hurrying off backstage. Draco nodded after him, rubbing – almost absentmindedly – his left forearm through his sleeve, the exact spot where the Mark was. Hermione stepped forward, out of the shadows, and their eyes met.

She shouldn't have been able to make out the emotion in them, not in the semi-darkness of the wings, but she could. They were cold. Not cold as in heartless or emotionless, but cold with fear, bleak and hopeless and desperate, and Hermione felt as though someone had tightened a noose around her heart.

Onstage, Susan Bones, Lady Macduff, was speaking. 'What had he done, to make him fly the land?' she asked.

'You must have patience, madam,' Ross – one of the fifth-years – replied. His voice was calm and gentle and seemed to come from a very long way away, as though the brightly-lit stage with its cheerful, flickering candles was another world.

'He had none: his flight was madness,' Lady Macduff replied. 'When our actions do not, our fears do make us traitors.'

Draco winced at that, breaking the stillness and the silence that had fallen over them. Hermione stepped forward, closer to him, the rustle of her dress almost deafening. Slowly, she put her hand on his wrist, slipped the sleeve up to his elbow – her fingers were cold against his skin, or perhaps it was his skin that was hot – and revealed the Dark Mark, a livid, burning black.

There was a moment of silence, in which the future, the possibilities, the gaping darkness and the dim, near-impossible chance at saving him, seemed to hang over them, heavy and thick as Fate.

'I'll go after the rehearsal,' Draco whispered into the thick tension. 'I'll be back before the play.'

It seemed such a ludicrous thing to say that Hermione almost laughed; if she had done it would have been a dark and bitter one. Knowing that they shouldn't speak in the wings – sound carried surprisingly easily – she pulled out her wand and muttered, '_Parmasoniti_.'

'Don't worry about it,' he said, his voice neutral and utterly blank, sounding almost deafening at a normal volume. 'He won't punish me for lateness, he knows it's difficult for me…'

'You aren't going,' Hermione interrupted, the vehemence in her voice surprising even herself. Her hand was still on is arm, holding his sleeve bunched around his elbow. 'You aren't going.'

'I have to go,' he repeated, in the same passive and blank tone, than sighed, seeming to sag a little. 'Hermione, you know I can't stay. I _can't_. He may forgive my lateness, but not going? He'll punish me for that. You know he will.' She felt him shiver, the hot skin under her fingers shaking, the pulse beating hard under her fingertips where blood was flowing to the Mark. As though it were a wound, an infection which had to be fought by the body, which it was.

Onstage, Ross was speaking, his distant voice echoing in the silence. 'But cruel are the times, when we are traitors and do not know ourselves.'

Draco's eyes closed briefly, as though pained. 'All too true,' he murmured. 'Have you noticed that?'

'Noticed what?' Hermione asked. 'Draco, listen to me, please, for once _listen_ to me. Stay here. Don't go to the meeting, don't go home, he might be planning to punish you but it's nothing to what'll happen if you go. You know he's going to make you kill again, you know your father's going to find out, you know what-'

'The play,' Draco interrupted; it was as if he hadn't heard anything she said. His voice was very quiet and very still, seeming to echo in the darkness around them. She tried to meet his eyes, but it was as though she wasn't even there; he stared straight through her. 'Haven't you noticed? How it's mirroring everything we do? Or everything we do mirrors it. Except it's a broken mirror, because some things aren't the same. You're _meant_ to be evil,' he told her; his right hand found its way into her hair, tangling itself tightly. She could feel it shaking. 'But you aren't. You're good, and trying to stop the evil, but you'll never manage it.'

He paused a moment, his face pale white even in the darkness and shadow that surrounded them. 'Draco,' Hermione whispered, 'You aren't… this isn't…'

'I'm starting to think all of this will only end the same way it does in the play,' Draco said, his tone of voice almost whimsical, light, a tone suited to daydreaming and summer afternoons and horribly out of place in the stifling darkness. 'Macbeth dies. I'll die.'

Hermione's hand tightened reflexively on his elbow. 'No,' she hissed. 'No, Draco, don't be so… This is all coincidence. You do realise that? The play reflects what's going on, that doesn't mean it's foreshadowing what has to happen. And if you dare try and take the spell off the swords again…' She swallowed, feeling the reassuring weight of his hand on her hair.

She wanted him to touch her, to put his hand on her cheek, let her feel the heat of his skin which meant he was still alive. Her hand tightened harder around his elbow, as if afraid he would collapse to the floor and die on her then and there and take a part of her with him, it felt as though he was coming apart in her hands, thin wisps of nothingness with none of what used to be Draco, good or bad, and it felt as though she couldn't breathe, as though all the air in the world had been taken from her.

She didn't want to think about how she'd feel if he actually did die. The threat of it was bad enough.

'Draco, please,' she begged, her voice cracking. She couldn't meet his eyes. 'Please stay. Do it for me, if you have no other reason to. Because I want you to. I want you to be safe, and alive and happy, I want you to be here. Please. They won't get you, they can't hurt you if you stay here, they can't do anything to you. You don't have to go.'

'Cruel are the times, when we are traitors and do not know ourselves,' Draco repeated in a whisper. Onstage, Lady Macduff was talking to her son. 'I don't know myself, Hermione. I don't know what I want. And whatever I do, I am a traitor.'

'Don't-' Hermione began, but he carried on without pausing.

'If I stay I'm a traitor my parents, to my ancestry, to my race. If I go, I'm a traitor to my feelings. Do you see? I can't win, whatever I do, there's no way out of it. No way out, whatever I do I'm a traitor.'

'But your feelings, your conscience, they're more important,' Hermione whispered, meeting his eyes, pleading for him to listen to her. If she could stop him going to the meetings, if she could stop him going home for the holidays, if she could help him…

'But I don't want to die,' he replied, sounding for all the world like a lost five-year-old, 'even if the play says I have to. And I don't want to be hurt either. And they will hurt me, if I don't go.'

'What about this pain?' Hermione asked, reaching out a cautious hand and laying it, flat, over his chest, over his heart. 'Isn't that worse?'

He was silent for a moment, looking at the floor. 'Yes,' he admitted. 'But I can't stay, Hermione, I _can't_.' His voice was cracking, breaking. 'I can't stay, I have to go, the cause, the survival of humanity. That's what… but you don't see it like that, do you, you don't-'

'And neither do you!' Hermione protested, tears rising to choke her voice. 'Don't be such an _idiot_, Draco, you know what humans are, you know I'm as human as you are, as anyone is, don't be so…'

Her voice ran out, and she had to close her eyes against a threatening flood of tears, so she didn't see his expression as he leant forward and tentatively, almost fearfully, dropped the lightest of kisses at her forehead. He shivered. 'I'll go when the rehearsal ends, and I'll be back in time for the play,' he said again, as though that could make up for anything, as though that could make any of it better, and she felt his hand slip out of her hair, felt him pull away from the places where she touched him, leaving her alone. She opened her eyes, fighting deep angry breaths into her lungs. It felt like all she could do not to scream; everything was falling apart and there was nothing, nothing she could do.

'Fine,' she said. Her voice was oddly choked, strained; she felt suddenly exhausted, as though every minute she'd spent worrying about him, trying to help him, over the past weeks and months had suddenly engulfed her all at once. 'If that's what you want, fine. Just go.'

She shut her eyes, feeling the first tear trickle down her cheek, and fought to keep her composure. She would not cry, not over him, not because he was too idiotic, too foolish, too fearful to leave. 'Hermione…' she heard him say, and shut the sound out.

'Just go,' she repeated, her voice so silent she could hardly hear it herself and he must have listened to her, because the next time she opened her eyes, the tears fought down and under a tenuous control, he was gone.

Onstage, the murderers were stabbing Lady Macduff's son to death, blood splattering across the boards, before chasing the poor woman offstage, swords brandished. Hermione couldn't help but shiver. If the play was a mirror of life, or life a mirror of the play…

'Be safe,' she whispered after Draco, the words vanishing into the darkness around her before she even realised she'd spoken.

* * *

**AN: **'_Parmasoniti_' is roughly 'small shield to sound'.

I have two questions this week. The first, which will apply to a small minority of you but must be asked anyway, is: Been watching the new Doctor Who? (Non-Brits will probably not have a clue what I'm on about. Half the Brits won't either.)

And to everyone else: I'm intending on doing Creative Writing at university (surprise, surprise) and in order to do so I'd quite like to have some original short stories under my belt to show them. This is where you come in: inspire me. Suggest anything, from concepts to objects to themes, characters and ideas. Anything whatsoever. I get inspired easily. (Got inspired by the bathroom tiles once…)

Anyway. Thanks for reading, and review!


	22. Act Five, Scene Four

Macbeth: Act Five, Scene Four

**Disclaimer: **I don't own them! Which is really probably a good thing, as it means JK Rowling can deal with Insane!Draco when all this is over. He's starting to worry me.

**Thanks for 1238 reviews goes to: **XSweetIntoxicationX, chaste-aeon, Diana Artemis Silvermoon, G0G0G1RL, samhaincat, Maibe Josie, Stoneage Woman, Alexi Lupin, Madame Malfoy, horseluver13, pat-nosferatu, JenCarpeDiem, Noubliz, Iza Ridell, libraflyter, AnneChristy, Bubbly Blueberry, palindrom, Alyana Enders, Marti Is So Cool, spinach, Sunflower18, Nathonea, Sever13, Silvestria, Jedi Knight Bus (x9), ms. understood, Satan's Advocate, Green Tea River, ali-lou, foxeran, Medea Callous, Hello Katee (x2), Kawaii Ryu, sandiwandi, NotreDamegirlie, UNOWEN, Artic Demon, DracoDraconis, Lyra Silvertongue2, Plaidly Lush, darkcherry, Jineva, willowfairy, Jenevieve, Fire-Pack (x6), NekoYami, Mirwen Sunrider, Monday Mornings, Faery, heavengurl899, Draco (x2), soul-simplicity, Tayz, Gina, sashlea, Nikki, Unspeakable May, .Nyome., katemary77, CrystalDragonfly, atsuibelulah.

**A/N: **Biology exam went fine, and thanks to all my well-wishers! Updates should speed up now, watch this space…

And considering I am both exhausted and rushed for time, I shall leave the AN there. it must be a record. Without further ado, onto the chapter! Enjoy!

* * *

It tasted like blood. 

It always did. Always. Because however many times something bloodstained was washed, it was never clean, never. Draco pulled the hood over his face, over the mask, with fingers already shaking, swallowing down bile. All great Neptune's ocean couldn't wash the stench of blood clean from the fabric. He stepped out from the cluster of trees, secluded enough not to be seen, and forced himself to head for the gates, for the edge of the Apparition wards.

It wasn't usual to have a meeting in the middle of the day. Something was wrong. The Death Eaters met at night time, like the witches, in darkness, and that fitted, too, because they were the force of evil tempting him into doing evil, like the witches, like Macbeth. Only it wasn't evil, killing Muggles and Mudbloods, because they were only animals and evil with it, destroying wizarding life. Pests. Vermin. Destructive and dangerous and therefore it was right to destroy them.

Hermione?

No, no, no, he closed his eyes, his breath already coming in sharp gasps, as though he couldn't get enough oxygen behind the cloying, crowding mask, the shrouding cloak, heavy and thick and evil around his shoulders. There was a hole in the mask, like a gashed wound, for him to speak through, and it wasn't until his lip started catching on the edge of it that he realised he was whispering, muttering below his breath, _no, no, please don't, no…_

Draco clamped his lips together tightly, closed his eyes, tried to take a deep breath but ended up choking. He couldn't let himself slip. He had to be very careful. He couldn't let anyone see.

He was late already; fear of punishment – writhing on the dirt under _Crucio_, screaming, and _please don't do this, please don't hurt me, anything but that_, pain that no words had ever been invented to describe, pain he would kill, had killed, to avoid – fear of punishment drove him onwards, so that in all too brief seconds he was outside the gates, outside the wards, his breaths coming tight and ragged, hating himself.

It took only a moment of concentration, and then the familiar blur of Apparition took him away.

It was silent. That was the first thing he noticed, before he opened his eyes. Totally silent, and the silence was worse than the noise, because if there was noise at least he knew what was going to happen, at least he knew that the Dark Lord was angry, or pleased, or planning something; at least he knew that screams meant torture. Silence could mean anything.

He opened his eyes.

They – the Death Eaters – were standing in a circle, hooded and masked, a gap in the circle where Draco should be standing, unmoving and silent as stones. They didn't seem human in anonymous masks and cloaks and hoods, with the eerie floating balls of light weaving their way among them, casting sharp and unnatural shadows; but then what was human, anyway?

There were no Muggles in the circle, and he was pathetically, ridiculously thankful for that, because surely that meant he wouldn't have to torture anyone, but then, if there was no torture, no amusement for the assembled Death Eaters, that meant it was a more serious meeting. Something was going to happen, something was going to happen, and Draco clutched at his wand till his fingers hurt and then started walking, stumbling forwards, trying to look calm and smooth and poised but inwardly screaming as though being flung into Hell, walking forwards to take his place in the circle.

In the centre of the circle was a cauldron, and a table before it with ingredients laid out, and Voldemort, facing him, watching him through glimmering, snake-like red eyes as Draco's feet came to a final thudding halt.

Voldemort smiled, the slow and lazy smile of a monster, coiled or curled in a hidden place, a vantage point, spying his victim with anticipation, snake eyes gleaming like poison in the bloody red light of the fire which burned beneath the cauldron. Draco found his lips moving again, a silent plea, silent because there was no one to hear it, to take notice. Voldemort would torture him. Hermione would help, but she wasn't there.

'Draco,' stated Voldemort, his voice smooth and cold, stepping closer, facing him, and the world was freezing, frosting over, white-cold, or it felt that way, felt, as though all the warmth were gone to fear and cold terror. 'Why are you so late, Draco?'

The voice wasn't angry. It was worse than angry; it was a light tone, a mocking tone, and the feeling of expectation in the circle was high. Something, something was happening, something bad, and it was all so cold, and Hermione wasn't there to help him, Hermione who he shouldn't need but did, and did Voldemort know this, did he know, could he know?

He had to answer the question, and the words were a long time in coming, forcing their way thickly up a tight throat, into a dry mouth and through lips that wouldn't work properly. 'There was a rehearsal, my Lord,' he heard himself saying, even and smooth, as if from a distance. 'I couldn't leave without being suspicious; I had to wait for the end.'

'Of course,' Voldemort replied, with another one of his predatory smiles, before turning his eyes to the other Death Eaters. 'I don't believe we've congratulated Draco on being cast in the lead role, have we?' he asked. The circle was silent; Draco had the wild thought, making so much sense, that they'd been frozen into stone, that he and the Dark Lord were the only two alive, maybe Voldemort had killed them, maybe this was a new punishment, being turned to stone, maybe it was already creeping its way up his legs, enchantment seeping into his skin…

No, no, that was his imagination, he was being silly to even think of the idea, no. He forced himself to shut his eyes, close out the slit of a world he could see through the mask and take a breath. He mustn't let his imagination run away with him, he knew where that led, he'd been there too many times, too many, he had to make himself stay very clear, he had to keep his mind here, and now, and not think about screaming or blood or death or the expressions on faces when…

'A shame, really, that it isn't a play more deserving of your acting abilities, Draco,' Voldemort added, and while part of his mind screamed _he knows, he knows, he knows what I'm thinking, he knows this is an act, he knows_, he very firmly clamped down on the thought, banished it, refused to consider it, because he couldn't be driven mad, not here, not now, no. He wouldn't let himself. No. 'A play by a Muggle can hardly be worthy of your attentions. Still, what more can be expected, at a school under the rule of…' A dark expression passed over the Dark Lord's face, a sour expression, and his slitted eyes narrowed.

Draco shivered, clutching at his wand, which once had felt like part of him, alive, but now was choked with so many tortures and deaths that it had suffocated on blood, dead and rotting in his palm, but he clutched at it nevertheless. What he wanted was Hermione, but she was a Mudblood, inhuman, repulsive. And then she was kind, she helped him, but she didn't understand how impossible it was for him to change sides, to leave the Dark Lord, how he'd be punished, how he'd be tortured; but somehow her skin felt like oxygen, felt like safety, and he needed that, and he wanted that.

'Are you nervous, Draco?' Voldemort was speaking again, the lightly mocking tone returned, terrifying for what it implied, what it promised, something he didn't know about, and the unknown was a shapeless shadow, thrown by the twin lights of the ruddy fire and floating globes of light, snaking and coiling around him, terrifying, nightmare. 'Half of Wizarding England is attending, if rumour cam believed. The parents of children at the school, their friends, relatives…' Stage fright seemed ridiculous, impossibly childish, something mythical to frighten children and amuse adults, compared to this, compared to standing here, silently, and waiting in the dark and the cold.

'Think of it,' Voldemort said, his tone far less light and less mocking now. 'So many wizards, gathered in one place. Some of them loyal to our cause, but so many blood-traitors, half-bloods, Mudbloods.' His face twisted into disgust, briefly, before clearing. 'If only the wards didn't prevent us from entering, what an opportunity this would be. To strike at our enemies while they are gathered in one place, unsuspecting, with children to protect, utterly unprepared…'

This wasn't happening. No, it wasn't happening, the Dark Lord wasn't implying what Draco thought, no, he couldn't be, it couldn't be happing, no. Beneath the darkness of his hood, under the cloying, choking heat of his mask, Draco could see it, see what would happen, if Voldemort managed to find a way past the wards, now, tonight; could see the Great Hall, the audience silent in their rows of chairs, in the darkness, could see black-robed figures descending suddenly, too suddenly, so that enjoyment turned to shock and then to nothing as green-lit death came for the first few, the lucky ones, could hear the screams and smell the blood, the terror, the fear, could see the stage in flames, the Hall, the school, burning, the smell of charring flesh and blacking bone.

So many of them. So, so many, all dying, all tortured, all dead, and they might be vermin but they still screamed and bled and wept and cried for their children, for parents, for lovers, and no, no, no…

'Do you not agree, Draco?' came Voldemort's voice, and he snapped back to reality with a sudden sharp shock of breath, Voldemort standing behind him, now, voice soft and menacing, and his long, cold fingers curled talon-like around his shoulder.

Words. He had to speak, had to, and it was even harder because all he wanted was to scream. 'Of… of course, my lord,' he stammered, hardly knowing what he was saying, hardly able to hear his own voice.

Voldemort seemed amused, releasing his shoulder and coming to face him. 'Tell me, Draco,' he asked, his voice once more mocking, and even more horrible now, for Draco knew what that tone meant, what was going to happen, no, no, please… 'what do you know about the Hogwarts wards?'

He'd read something, somewhere, once, a book, but he didn't remember, couldn't remember, because he couldn't even focus on the present let alone remember that, not when it took so much of his concentration to keep from screaming, from crumpling to the floor, blind and deaf to anything but horror, fear. He had to die, because the play demanded it and he was trapped in the play, because he couldn't feel fear like this, not like this, not this much, couldn't feel this much fear and live.

Draco didn't trust himself enough to speak, because who knew what words his tongue and lips and teeth would form? So he shook his head instead, dumbly, mute. There was a pause; the fire beneath the cauldron crackled and burnt.

'You should pay more attention to these things, Draco,' Voldemort replied, and for the first time the standing stone circle of Death Eaters made a noise, a low murmur of laughter, a dark and sinister sound. That came from everywhere and nowhere, and cut back to the endless, aching silence almost immediately.

'I shall tell you, then. While the wards are neutral with respect to most wizards, they can be set to preserve or prevent the entry of certain groups. Merely residing at Hogwarts allows magic from the school to seep into your blood, marking you as a member of the school. Did you never wonder why you could enter the building even with my Mark on your arm, even as a Death Eater, when the wards should by rights have kept you out? Because the school's magic which resides within you takes precedence over this, allowing you in. But this lingering magic fades once you leave; were you to spend a few months away from the school it would be gone, and you would be subject to the same restrictions as the rest of us.'

He paused here, and even though Draco could tell what was coming, knew what was coming, he found himself shaking. The Dark Lord would find, or already knew, a way around the wards, a way to enter, a way in, and they would attack, tonight, during the play when no one was expecting danger, and the blood and the screaming…

He forced himself to block the thought from his mind, forced himself not to think about it, to think of something else, anything else, and the first thing that came to mind were his lines. Is this a dagger I see before me, the handle towards my hand? And that was ironic, because he was trapped in the story, and he wanted Hermione, because even though the world around her was unsafe and dangerous and made of cracks and chasms and breaks where everything he'd once thought was at war with her presence and her smile; even with that she was safer than this place.

'We have created a potion, Draco,' Voldemort was saying, very quiet, very light, and the simplicity of those words and the menace, the murder, the violence they implied almost made him gasp. 'A potion which, if made correctly, will allow that magic inherent in your blood to be extended to all of us. Aren't you pleased, Draco?'

Something must have happened to him then, because forever after that moment he couldn't properly remember what happened, couldn't remember, no matter how hard he tried. Everything came back in patches, moments burnt too brightly into his brain that could never fade, with aching gaps of darkness between them.

He remembered the Dark Lord explaining that the potion created a link between Draco's blood and that of all who drink the potion. And adding, in a tone of mock reassurance, that the potion was designed so that only the properties of the maker's blood at the time the potion is made are included in the link, that no new additions to Draco's blood would be passed to the Death Eaters. In the unlikely event that plan was discovered, therefore, whatever the Order might do to him with potions or desperate poisons would have no effect on the blood-linked Death Eaters.

He remembered knowing, by the emphasis, the pauses, the tone of voice, that Voldemort didn't mean that at all, that he'd had the potion designed like this so that Draco couldn't stop it, from sheer terror or unexpected courage, by taking something himself. He remembered shuddering, because then he knew, he _knew_ it was too late.

He remembered reciting the instructions, written in a hand he didn't recognise, reciting ingredients and method over and over again because he couldn't escape, he couldn't get out of this, there was nothing he can do but follow Voldemort's orders, and he couldn't collapse or break down or scream as he wanted to, and perhaps, he thought, if he focussed very clearly and very firmly on the potion he could pretend he was at school, in Potions class or somewhere equally as mundane, he could pretend that he was anywhere but there.

He remembered dragging a dagger across his palm, watching the blood drop into the boiling, bubbling cauldron, and thinking _this is it_.

He remembered Voldemort saying, once more in a mockingly reassuring tone, that there would be watchers in the audience, people under Imperius, with no hint of suspicion upon them, who have the means to contact the Death Eaters immediately should anything go wrong. The merest disturbance of the play, and the attack would begin immediately.

Most clearly of all, he remembered Voldemort saying, 'Was it hard, Draco, with a Mudblood as Lady Macbeth? Having to pretend an animal was your wife, even if only in acting?' The look in Voldemort's eyes was dark, malicious, sadistic, and Draco couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't speak, couldn't do anything but stand with his mind seizing up and floating, white and blurred but growing no less painful, as Voldemort said, 'Perhaps I'll let you kill her. Would you like that, Draco?'

* * *

'This play's cursed, you know.' 

Hermione was sitting backstage, in one of the dressing rooms - black fabric stretched on cheap wooden frames, squeezed in a wobbly row in between two storage areas for props. The first few audience members were already trickling into the Great Hall, and she could hear the distant murmur of voices, though it was masked by the closer conversations of her cast members in the cubicle next door.

'Don't be so ridiculous, Luna.' That was Blaise, her voice more amused than annoyed. 'How can a play be cursed? One of the actors, or the writer, yeah, but – Ginny, have you seen my hairbrush?'

'It's over there, under the stool,' Ginny replied. 'Are you any good at knots, I can't tie this blessed thing up…'

'I'll do it,' came Luna's voice. It was almost eerie, Hermione felt, to be able to hear them but not see them, as though she were removed from their world, separated and in a place of her own. It was such a normal conversation, which she was thankful for: it was distracting.

'I did mean it, though,' Luna continued. 'The Muggles are very superstitious about it, it's bad luck to even say the name.'

'Really? Well Muggles have always been a bit daft,' came Blaise's voice. 'What do they call it, then? The Play Which Must Not Be Named?'

'Don't make jokes-' Ginny began, but Luna interrupted.

'They call it the Scottish Play,' she said. 'And if anyone says its true name in a theatre, it brings terrible bad luck.'

Blaise snorted. 'Now that I don't believe,' she remarked. 'Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth.'

Hermione shifted uncomfortably, looking at her face in the mirror. Being Muggleborn, she couldn't help but feel the faintest twinge of anticipation, as though something were to happen, even though she knew superstitions were utter rubbish.

'See? Nothing happened. Here, pass me that hairpin, my hair's falling – thanks, Ginny.'

Hermione sighed, checking to make sure her own carefully braided hair wasn't slipping. It wasn't, thankfully, and she was already in costume, and her dress and crown for being Queen were already in place along with the nightgown for the sleepwalking and the murder. She really ought to be doing something more useful, like talking to people, or making sure she knew her lines, or waiting and watching for Draco to return.

But she didn't want to speak to him, couldn't let herself speak to him. She had tonight and tomorrow morning, and she knew there was no way she could stop him leaving, no way she cold keep him safe. Seeing him… seeing him would only make it worse. She would act her part alongside him, and then avoid him through whatever inevitable aftershow party sprang up, and then go to bed and try to forget about him. And tomorrow he would go home, and his madness would be discovered, and she didn't know what would happen to him but she knew that he would probably be lost to her forever.

'And did you know,' Luna continued from the next room, sounding as though she were imparting sacred knowledge, 'there hasn't been a single production of the play that hasn't led to someone having a major accident. Or a death.'

'Really?' Blaise asked. 'Here, I'll do the clasp for you, Ginny, hold still a second…'

'In the very first production, the person playing Lady Macbeth died,' Luna told her. She sounded more excited than afraid. 'And in the first production outside England, the actor playing Duncan was killed onstage by Macbeth in a love triangle over the woman playing Lady Macbeth, and no one even realised until…'

'Well, that won't be happening in this production,' Ginny remarked, and Hermione's hand curled tightly around the hem of her sleeve as they laughed. She couldn't have said why.

And then she heard his voice, and her heart leapt despite herself; he was back, he was safe, he wasn't dead. 'Hermione? Hermione, where are you?'

He sounded afraid, almost frantic, but she bit her lip and glanced, sideways, to meet her gaze in the mirror. She wanted, more than anything, to speak to him, but she knew she couldn't. It would only make it worse for herself when she lost him if she let herself keep hoping, keep following him, keep trying to help. She'd already given him as much help as possible, tried to get him to turn away from Voldemort, and he had made it clear that he couldn't, or wouldn't.

'Hermione, please, I need your help!'

There was a whispered remark and a giggle from the witches; she bit her lip. Perhaps she should help, should go and see what he wanted; he sounded desperate. And it was only once more. She could help him once more without it hurting her so much more when she lost him, couldn't she?

But Hermione hadn't even had time to stand when another voice cut in.

'What do you want with Hermione?'

It was Harry's, defensive and curious. Hermione could picture the way he was standing, arms crossed defiantly, gaze fierce and intent. She twisted in her seat, frowning at the drawn curtain that served as a door as though she could see through it, wondering what Harry was doing.

'Potter.' Draco's tone was somehow resigned, as though he'd been through everything that could be thrown at him and Harry's presence was only something to be expected. 'Do you know where she is? I need to speak to her. Urgently. _Please_.'

He was pleading, Hermione realised. And his voice was shaking.

'What about?' Harry asked, suspicious. Hermione could hear Draco hesitating. The witches were also silent; she could imagine them listening, paused in their activities to eavesdrop.

'About…' Draco's voice faltered. 'I… Potter, I can't tell you! Just tell me where she is!'

'It's you she's been worrying about, isn't it?' Harry asked quietly, and Hermione saw her skin flush in the mirror. How much did they know? 'We worked it out. She said it wasn't someone either of us knew, or a Gryffindor, and she's been spending an awful lot of time rehearsing with you. What's going on?'

He had to be guessing, trying to find an answer, but there was silence and she knew Draco had frozen. 'We're the main characters, Potter,' he said at last, the sarcastic tone in his voice perfect. 'That tends to necessitate a lot of rehearsal time.'

'Not as much as you've been doing,' Harry replied. 'Besides, I've watched you two in rehearsal, you certainly haven't needed much practice. What's been going on?'

'Nothing,' was Draco's answer, immediate, snapped. 'Nothing's going on!'

'I was only asking, Malfoy.' Harry replied. 'And I bet I can guess. You're going to become a Death Eater, aren't you? And Hermione found out, and she's trying to persuade you not to. Am I right?'

Hermione had to wince at the irony; she heard Draco give a bitter laugh. It was the obvious, logical conclusion, but so completely wrong. Too late, too late.

'Completely wrong, Potter. Now tell me where she is. I _need_ to speak to her.'

'Tell me what about.' Harry was steadfast. 'There's nothing you can say to her you can't say to me. Unless you really do have a secret. Something that Hermione knows about, something that's worrying her.'

There was silence, an achingly empty silence, and Hermione was just about to think that he'd cracked, that Harry had somehow sent him over the edge, when Draco spoke. 'I have nothing to say to you,' he said, voice very quiet and very low and full of menace. 'Now tell me where she is!'

'She's close enough to hear,' Harry said, almost flippantly, 'I'm sure if she wanted to speak to you she'd come out.'

'_Where?_' Draco spat, and she heard him wrench open the curtain of the empty cubicle next to her. 'Hermione, please listen to me, I have to tell you something, it's important, I need your help…' He tugged on the curtain to her cubicle, and she tensed, but the dressing areas were all charmed so that occupied rooms could not be entered. 'Hermione!'

She heard him tugging on the witches' curtain, and then wrenching the next one along open. Should she go out? Should he go and speak to him? He did sound desperate, but she was still unwilling to go. He'd hurt her, with his refusal to turn from Voldemort; he would only hurt her more. There was nothing she could do for him that she hadn't already done. And very deep down, a part of her wanted revenge, wanted him to feel what it was like to have your pleas ignored, refused. A small part, and a dark one, that she wouldn't have listened to alone, but with her other reasons…

'Hermione, please, please, I need your help, please…'

'Draco? There you are!' Another voice broke into the conversation – Megan's – and the choice was taken away from her. 'Where've you been? Come on, we need to get you ready, there's only fifteen minutes before the play starts, I've been absolutely frantic looking for you…'

'Megan? Where's Hermione?' she heard Draco ask, desperately, almost frantic.

'Oh, don't worry about here, she was ready ages ago. Come on, come on, you've been driving me mad with worry looking for you…'

She must have dragged Draco away, because her voice was getting fainter; Hermione released a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. He was gone, and she had the whole play to decide whether to talk to him or not when next she saw him.

'You alright, Hermione?' came Harry's voice from outside the curtain. Hermione forced herself to reply.

'I'm fine. Thanks for that. I really… well, I was trying to avoid him,' she replied.

'Any chance you'll tell me the reason why?' Harry asked hopefully.

Hermione shook her head before remembering he couldn't hear her. 'Not now,' she replied. 'Maybe some other time.'

'Alright. Break a leg!' he called out, cheerfully, and then there was the sound of his receding footsteps.'

There was silence for a moment, giving Hermione a bare second to begin to worry over what she should have done before hearing Blaise's whisper from the witches' room. 'Break a leg?'

'Muggle phrase,' Luna whispered. 'Means good luck in the theatre. It's meant to be unlucky to say good luck.'

'Nuts,' Ginny said, and then there was a pause, and then a giggle. 'Perhaps we will have people killing each other over Lady Macbeth, only it'll be Harry killing Malfoy instead of Duncan.'

'Don't even joke about it,' Hermione mouthed under her breath, remembering the practice where that had come all too close to happening, and sank her head in her hands.

* * *

The remaining fifteen minutes flew by, and in no time at all the theatre was darkening, and the audience fell quiet as the curtain rose on the witches, high on the balcony that ran around the stage, the glowing balls of light weaving their way around the stage below them. It was an inspiring first scene, almost in total darkness; Hermione remembered seeing it in dress rehearsal. Then the lights came up proper, on the stage with streaming water down the sides and candlelight glowing warmly, for Duncan to receive news of the battle. Even listening from her hiding-space in the changing area, Hermione knew the audience would be hooked. 

Then Macbeth and Banquo met the witches, the candlelight an eerie green and the glowing balls of light floating, casting unnatural lights and shadows on the water, then natural candlelight again for Duncan and the court, and that meant her opening scene was next.

She did feel nervous then, smoothing and re-smoothing her dress, waiting in the wings, mouthing the words to herself. Her first speech was awfully long, but one of her favourites, so satisfying to act. And she knew she could act it; it had been the audition piece. So long ago, it seemed now, but really no more than a few months.

'Stars, hide your fires,' Draco was saying, looking upwards as though truly speaking to the stars which hung above him in the Great Hall's ceiling, 'let not light see my black and deep desires.'

Shivering – remembering when he'd said that, before, speaking of black and deep desires other than those Shakespeare had intended – she reached for her prop, left ready there by a helpful backstage crew. A blank sheet of parchment, Macbeth's letter to her. Reciting her lines in her head, hear pounding nervously in her chest, she opened the paper.

It wasn't blank.

A few lines had been frantically scribbled on it in Draco's handwriting, though faster and more desperate than she'd ever seen it. It was only three sentences long, but the sheer impact of the words froze her.

_The Dark Lord is going to attack during the play. Don't let the audience see that there's anything wrong: he has spies._

_I need your help._

* * *

**AN: **Yes, I know, I'm evil. I have already been informed of this repeatedly by my irate beta. 

But you love me for it. (Hopefully.)

This week's question: if you could change something, anything, about this story, what would you change? And don't say there's nothing to change, because I'm already building a sizeable list, so I'll know you're lying! More of a certain character, les of them, more of a particular theme, less of a theme, changing characterisation, a change to plot, changing the order of things… anything you can think of that you'd like to change.

Review!


	23. Act Five, Scene Five

Macbeth: Act Five, Scene Five

**Disclaimer: **You know the person who died in HBP? If I owned Harry Potter, that person would still be very much alive. Thus you can tell I don't own HP. (I'm not sure you can say the same for Macbeth, though, but then if it isn't obvious I'm now William Shakespeare I'd be very worried.)

**Thanks for 1407 reviews goes to: **pat-nosferatu, Alexi Lupin,Sanic, Catelina, Marti Is So Cool, Hieiko, Diana Artemis Silvermoon, Daisy Miller, heavengurl899, Noubliz, sandiwandi, Alyana Enders, Janie Granger, AniDragon, aka Riona-chan, nuit (x2), Stoneage Woman, Jedi Knight Bus, Maibe Josie, Opalfire, Bella, Kou Shun'u, leafsfan4eva, Monday Mornings, sunflower18, Flavagurl, Debutante, Silvestria, Mashiara Sedai, charretier, Unspeakable May, AnneChristy, Langasiell, ali-lou katemary77, Jess, Fire-Pack, SugarQuillCandy, cuznhottie, Mjade-1, Amortentia, SilverMoonset, PlaidlyLush, sashlea (x2), Chaotic Happenings, sblomie, NotreDamegirlie, samhaincat, katy, the girl trapped in a dream, ms.understood, foxeran, La Suede, willowfairy, Madam Midnight (x2) Kiyoko, Tasha, Gina, Jeccia, Tayz (x2), Faery, .Aurorablu., KawaiiRyu, Dreaming One (x3) Linwe Falassion, ToOtHpIcK, Saotoshi (x19), SimplyChristine (x2), Cartoongurl, Sam (x2) FireBringer, Flexi Leci, heyjude23, r.3.d.3.d.m.p.t.i.0.n, astraeos, Beloved-Stranger, seghen (x3), elloodd (x3), D'quer Jyi-Weil, Angel-Wings-Forever, BouncingDelta88, Ptrst, yingnyang, tinkabell, sugar n spice 522, Mirwen Sunrider, Riko, Hogwartsstollaway, Lil-babes, Freesia, Trieste, Munching Munchkin Management, Laura, silverwisp, darkcherry, Silverwinged Blackbird, Mari, sarah, Dai (x2), Iridian, Juleczka, natyslacks, Gimmering Stars, SugarQuill Cutie, Freya, danapotter, Lady Mariel, True Slytherin Witch (x22), angeli1angeli, deathlykisses (x5), TiKiElf.

**A/N: **Um. Yes.

To address the shamefully, sickeningly long wait between updates; it was, simply put, my first proper, long-term case of writer's block. Wasn't nice, and wasn't well-timed either, for which I apologise. But I'm not letting this fic die without a fight, and so here it is, what happened after That Cliffhanger.

I'd also really like to think all my reviewers for not getting mad at me while I went on that rather unscheduled hiatus. I was worried that people would be angry with me, but everyone (for the most part) was really kind and cheerful and understanding. Really meant a lot to me. Thanks, all of you. You all get chocolate.

I've had the results of my AS exams, and I got what I'd hoped for in all of them except for one; my Eng Lang exam. But one of the papers for that looks like it's had seriously odd marking (the score on it is almost exactly half of the scores on the other two units, percentage wise) so that one's going for a remark. At least it's in my best subject and a paper that won't be too much hassle to resit if I have to.

In other news, this fic is obviously now AU for HBP.

Without further delay, onto the chapter. Enjoy!

* * *

Mostly, it felt surreal.

She knew she was on the stage, the letter clutched tightly in her hand, reading out Macbeth's letter to his wife even as her eyes couldn't stop scanning the letter that was really there: Draco's letter to _her_.

The Dark Lord is going to attack during the play. Don't let the audience see that there's anything wrong: he has spies.

I need your help.

She could see the audience from the corner of her eye, no longer individual people but merged by the darkness into one being, one consciousness, watching her. It wasn't as scary as it ought to have been. It was hard to imagine that out there were spies, watching in case the school was alerted, making sure Draco told no one. It was even harder to imagine that Voldemort was going to attack. That the entire watching, listening audience could be massacred in an hour or two's time; that every word she spoke could be the last they ever heard.

And still she was saying the right lines, acting the part, speaking exactly as she'd planned to with all the intent and feeling she'd managed in rehearsals. How was that? She should be terrified; she shouldn't be able to act properly.

But it hadn't sunk in yet. It wasn't quite real; as if even the terror of Voldemort was just a dream compared to the hyper-reality of the stage she walked on, the hardness of the floor under her feet, the disorienting slope downwards, or the flickering brightness given off by the magical candles.

It was as if a tiny, detached part of her mind was watching herself as she spoke to the messenger, called on the spirits to harden her heart and help her murder the king, and then, in either an eternity or a heartbeat, Draco was onstage. She ran to him, calling out 'My husband!' – and then _this_ was real. _He_ was real.

He looked the part, returning victorious to his wife, and no one would ever have spotted the signs if they hadn't been looking for them, if they hadn't known where to look. He was pale. Even under the candlelight his skin was colourless. And there was something in his expression, nothing she could define; a tight, drawn, tense look, as though he were holding himself in.

She took his hand as she spoke, feeling the coldness of it, the pulse beating fast under her fingertips, and felt the first stirrings of fear coming through.

* * *

'False face must hide what the false heart doth know,' she said, touching her hand to his face, and they stepped backwards together into the darkness of backstage. 

The shadows closed around them, shrouding his face; for a moment, still dazzled by the stage light, she couldn't see. Than Draco was gripping her hand painfully; she blinked and his face started to become clear.

'Hermione?' he asked in a whisper. Somehow even the tone of his voice was frightening; the slight tremble, the catch in his voice as he said her name. She didn't even know what he was asking.

'Yes,' she replied anyway, pulling her wand from her pocket. It was too close to the stage to talk unless they used magic. '_Parmasoniti_,' she muttered quickly. 'Draco? Are you alright?'

He clutched at her hand, shaking his head. 'Hermione, you have to listen to me, he's coming, it's tonight, he's going to attack, everyone's going to die, please, Hermione, you have to-'

'Hush,' she told him, squeezing his hand, trying to calm him even as she felt the cold trails of fear tracing their path across her flesh. 'Draco, it's alright. We're going to stop him. Together. I promise.'

It was a ludicrous promise to make, really. She didn't have a plan. She didn't even have the slightest idea of what could be done. But whatever happened she'd try. She'd known that since she'd read the letter; how could she _not_ try to stop Voldemort? How could she refuse to help Draco, for that matter?

They'd come up with something. They always did.

But Draco was shaking his head. 'No, no, no, we can't, this play is cursed, there's nothing we can do to stop it. He's going to kill everyone, Hermione. They're all going to _die_.' His free hand reached up to her face, to brush a loose strand of hair behind her ear. 'I didn't mean to kill you,' he said, and his voice was shivering. 'I didn't want to kill you. They made me do it, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry…'

'I'm not dead,' she interrupted, surprised by the desperation in her voice, as if belief could make his imaginings true. 'Draco, I'm not dead, I'm not going to die for a very long time.'

He didn't reply, just shook his head silently with an expression that wavered between a smile and pain. From onstage, Hermione could hear Banquo speaking.

'I'm meant to be on in a minute,' Draco murmured, almost to himself, as though recalling a dream he'd half-forgotten. He turned his eyes on her; reflections of the deep blue candlelight flickering in them. They made his eyes look alive; Hermione knew, sickeningly, that if she blocked the candlelight they would look flat and empty and dead. 'Hermione, you mustn't let them see anything's wrong, you can't let them know, the Death Eaters are all there, they're just waiting, the minute they see something's wrong they'll attack, there won't be time to do anything…' He took a sharp, sudden breath. 'I can't let them see either, I can't let them know, I've got to hide it…'

'You can do it,' she whispered, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. 'Don't let any of it show. I've seen you do it, I know you can.' But he'd been close to cracking before, she knew. And how suspicious did something have to be before the spies in the audience called the Death Eaters forward?

If he cracked, if he started raving about Voldemort, or murders, or Death Eaters…

'False face must hide what the false heart doth know,' Draco agreed, the merest flicker of a smile crossing his face, before closing his eyes. She could almost feel him pulling the reserves of his sanity around him, like a soldier putting on battered and rusty armour for the greatest battle yet.

Without opening his eyes, he whispered, 'He's planning to attack in Act Five, I don't know when. I can tell you more in the Porter's speech.' And then there wasn't any time left; he turned and hurried to his entrance.

A moment later, she heard him step onto stage, no hint of what he truly felt in his voice, acting again.

She had nothing to do but wait.

* * *

It took her two minutes to change into her nightgown for the murder scene. The dressing rooms were empty; most characters didn't have to change costume during the play itself, and everyone else had congregated in the main props area. 

Hermione didn't think she could face them. Not when they were laughing and cheerful, not when they were excited about the play. They didn't know. She couldn't tell them.

And now the more she thought about it the more real it became, the more frightening, and the more fear began to crawl in her stomach. She found herself crossing the room nervously, fiddling with something on the rickety table, smoothing her hand along the fabric walls, picking up the letter, playing with the edges and putting it down again without reading it.

He was attacking tonight. Voldemort was attacking, while the Great Hall was packed full. The scene came all too easily to her mind, now; the doors slamming open in the middle of a speech, and there would be Voldemort, flanked by Death Eaters. Panic. The audience screaming, crying, shouting to get out; children wailing, parents snatching them up, clinging desperately together. How many would think to draw their wands in the chaos? How many would think they even stood a chance against Voldemort? Not enough.

A panicking, terrified mass of people, trapped in one room. It would be a _massacre_.

'Hermione?'

She jumped, as if expecting Voldemort to appear at that very instant, but almost immediately relaxed again; it was only Harry.

'Hermione? I know you're down here, Luna said you came this way… of course, this is Luna we're talking about…'

Normally she'd have laughed. 'I'm here,' she said, distractedly. 'Just been changing costume.'

'Oh,' came Harry's voice. 'I was just wondering where you got to.' There was a short, almost tense pause. 'Er, can I come in a minute? I mean, assuming you're decent.'

Hermione hesitated, unsure of what to do. She couldn't really think of an excuse to say no, but she didn't… she didn't feel she could talk to anyone at the moment. Not with Voldemort attacking, not knowing that somewhere out there, at this very moment, the Death Eaters were massing…

But there wasn't any excuse not to. 'Yeah, sure,' she heard herself call out, defeated, and she drew back the curtain to see Harry's grinning face. Hermione managed to produce some semblance of a smile, and moved back to let him in.

'I was listening from backstage,' he began cheerfully. 'You were really good out there, you know? The whole audience almost forgot to breathe.'

She forced a laugh, sitting down on the chair provided. 'Thanks.'

He gave her an odd look at that; Hermione glanced down to the floor, not wanting to meet his eyes. 'Is something wrong?' he asked, and Hermione stiffened.

She couldn't show something was wrong. If Harry could see it, then the spies in the audience could see it when she went onstage, and if they got suspicious…

'It's just stage fright,' she said, waving a hand as if to dismiss the very idea of it away. 'A little nervous. You know what I'm like.'

Harry looked suspicious. 'You weren't that nervous before you went on stage the first time,' he said. 'And you're meant to be more nervous then.' He paused a moment, Hermione desperately trying to think of an excuse, but before she managed it he asked, carefully, 'Is it Malfoy?'

'No!' she denied, instantly and instinctively, panic flaring through her. 'No, it's nothing to do with him, it's…'

He was giving her a gentle, friendly smile. 'We know it's him, you know,' he said. 'You said the person you were worried about wasn't in Gryffindor, wasn't someone we knew well. Who else could it be?'

Hermione closed her eyes, sighing as she felt all the resistance in her abruptly vanish. Voldemort was planning his attack at that very minute, just waiting for the most opportune moment, and there was only she and Draco who even knew it was going to happen. It had seemed so important for Harry and Ron not to find out, before, but now the entire discussion seemed surreal. The only thing that felt real anymore was the armies of Death Eaters massing somewhere in the darkness, and paradoxically, the practiced, brightly-lit reality of the stage.

She looked down at the floor, the rough, temporary floorboards under her feet, and then at Harry. Normally she wouldn't tell him anything, but now all the regular rules were out of the window. They needed, she knew, as much help as they could get.

'It's not Draco,' she said, sighing slightly.

Harry raised his eyebrows. 'Hermione, you don't have to deny it, we know,' he said. 'We're not… angry, or anything, we just-'

She interrupted him, shaking her head. 'I didn't mean that. It was him I've been worrying about, and I'm worried about him now, I guess, but…' Her glance fell on the letter, creased into quarters and lying innocently on the table. 'But I'm more worried about… about…'

Silently, she picked up the letter, turning it over and over in her hands, before mutely passing it to Harry. Frowning at her, he opened the parchment. Hermione watched his expression change as his eyes scanned the lines.

'He wrote it on the letter. The one I used in my first scene,' she explained when Harry didn't speak for a moment. Above their heads, a patch of the Great Hall's ceiling flickered briefly; lightning.

'We've got to go to Dumbledore,' Harry said, suddenly; his expression lined with something she couldn't name, and had taken a step towards the curtain before she could react.

'Dumbledore's in the audience,' Hermione pointed out.

Harry stopped, hovering at the entrance. 'So?' he asked sharply,

'So there's spies in the audience,' she said. 'The Death Eaters are ready to attack if they hear something suspicious is going on, if they think Draco told anyone. Don't you think they might find it a little suspicious if they-'

'How does he know all this?' Harry demanded. 'Malfoy. How does he know?' There was a moment's silence, the voices of the actors onstage trickling back to their ears. 'He's a Death Eater, isn't he?'

'Yes, but-'

'Then how do you know that what he's saying is true?' he asked. 'How do you know there's spies, how do you know the Death Eaters are ready to attack?' He waved the letter at her. 'How do you even know this is true? How do you know they're not just… just using it as a lure to make you do something stupid?'

Hermione's breath caught in her throat; so that was what it was about. Sirius. 'Because I trust him,' she said quietly, even as she said it worrying that maybe Draco was lying, maybe it had all been a lie, maybe, maybe…

But it wasn't. She was convinced of that; she knew him, she'd seen his insanity, she'd washed the blood off his hands when he'd been forced to torture Snape. There was no doubt in her mind that he was truthful. And if it was a hoax, why pretend to be insane? Surely if it was a hoax, he'd have keep it simpler; he'd have told her he'd changed his mind, he hadn't understood what he was getting into, he wanted out. He would have pretended he'd changed his opinions on Muggleborns, too.

She trusted him; she knew that what he said was true. It was that simple.

'How can you trust _him_?' Harry asked, his voice rising, red spotting his face. 'He's _Malfoy_, Hermione, he's a slimy, disgusting, foul little-'

She was about to interrupt, but someone else did it for her: _'Will you be quiet in there!'_

It took her an endless, terrified moment to realise it was Megan's voice. 'I don't care what the argument is, they'll hear you in the audience if you keep that up, so _be quiet_.'

'Sorry,' Hermione called out in a whisper, already feeling both guilty and terrified as she heard the footsteps fading. Guilty because their voices could have spoiled the play; terrified because if the audience had heard…

They waited in silence until they were sure they were alone; Hermione's eyes met Harry's and for the first time she could see his fear there. 'What's he been saying?' he asked. 'To make you trust him. What's he been telling you? That he's had a change of heart, that he didn't know what he was getting into?'

She shook her head feebly. 'He's going insane,' she said, the words seeming almost solid on her lips, in the air.

'He's _what_?' Harry asked incredulously, obviously surprised. 'You mean…?'

'It's killing people. Having to hurt them. A bit like the play, really,' Hermione admitted unwillingly. She didn't want to tell him too much. 'He keeps… seeing things, sometimes. Blood on his hands. Sometimes he thinks he killed me. He thinks the play's coming true. He doesn't…' She sighed, glancing up at him. 'That's why I didn't want to tell you. And that's how I know I can trust him.'

Harry was shaking his head, almost disbelievingly. 'Fine. Malfoy's a nutter and he doesn't want to be a Death Eater. But we've _got_ to go to Dumbledore,' he whispered into the silent air. 'Even if he doesn't want to be a Death Eater, we can't trust what Malfoy says.'

'We can't gamble with people's _lives_, Harry,' she whispered back forcefully. 'If Draco is telling the truth, and _I_ believe him, then as soon as we tell Dumbledore the Death Eaters will attack.'

Hermione could see the quick rise and fall of his shoulders in the half-light, tense with the thought of what would happen. She pressed on. 'Listen, Draco says they aren't attacking until Act Five. We have plenty of time. If it gets to the end of Act Four, and we still can't think of a way to stop him…' Hermione paused. 'Then we'll go tell Dumbledore and try to arrange some kind of defence before he gets here. But we can't do that until we've tried everything else we can do, alright?'

Harry frowned, seeming to consider this, then gave in. 'Alright. But I still don't trust Malfoy,' he added, quickly. 'I'm only agreeing because I trust _you_.'

She couldn't help but smile at that, even with the threat of Voldemort hanging over them in the darkness. 'Thanks,' she said. 'You're onstage in the Porter's bit, aren't you?'

'The second bit of it, yes,' he replied. 'Why?'

'It's the first time both me and Draco are offstage,' Hermione replied, 'so he can tell me how Voldemort's getting in.' She paused a moment, wondering what to say, when the distant voice of Draco filtered into the tiny room from the stage.

'Thou sure and firm-set earth, hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear the very stones prate of my whereabout…'

'I've got to be onstage in a moment,' she whispered, giving Harry's hand a brief squeeze. 'Are you okay?'

'Fine,' he replied, with a brief shrug. 'If anyone's going to defeat Voldemort…'

'You're the best,' she agreed, and reached over to give her friend an impulsive hug. She didn't see his expression; when she drew back, he was smiling softly, as if trying to reassure her he was alright.

'I'd better go,' she said. 'Meet you on the left side of the stage before the Porter's speech.' He nodded, and Hermione hurried away, leaving him alone in the dressing room.

* * *

'What hands are here?' Draco was saying, holding up his bloodstained hands and staring at them. The candles were beginning to burn red, reflecting off the water at the sides of the stage, making it look uncomfortably like blood. Hermione couldn't see Draco's face from where she waited, but she knew how he looked, or how he'd looked in rehearsal, anyway. Almost disbelieving sickened by his own skin. She didn't know how much of that was acting and how much was real; she'd seen the same expression cross his face in real situations, too. 

'Ha! they pluck out mine eyes,' he continued, and Hermione forced herself to look away. The murder scene was almost at an end, but so many of his words or phrases, so many of his gestures, so many of those flickering expressions that passed over his face and made Hermione think that was it, he was going to crack, he'd crack and the spies would see and Voldemort would sweep down upon them…

But he hadn't, not yet.

'Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood clean from my hand?' Draco asked, as Hermione reached for the bowl of blood that awaited her by the door she'd just left from. Fake blood, of course; it was somehow redder than the real thing, and stickier, clinging thickly to her arms as she smeared it over them. She glanced back up at the stage, feeling suddenly nauseous, before standing and focussing herself, trying to calm down. It was almost her cue.

'No,' Draco was saying, almost laughing, a horrible, painful kind of laugh, 'this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.' She stepped onto the stage, holding her head high and dignified, her bloodstained hands by her side.

'My hands are of your colour,' she said, 'but I shame to wear a heart so white.'

And then came the knocking, sudden and loud, a heavy pounding from backstage. She reacted as she was meant to, swivelling in sudden fear, while Draco stayed staring mutely at his hands.

'I hear a knocking at the south entry;' she said, crossing to Draco, whose skin would have been white except for the crimson light of the candles, a sudden twist of fear inside her. The knocking at the gate, people arriving at the castle, the impending fear of discovery… and Draco was staring at his hands. He was meant to be, but a slow and burning fear crept through her that his eyes were a little too wide and wild, his horror too real, the blood on his hands glowing and flickering like a living entity in the candlelight…

'Retire we to our chamber,' she said firmly, catching at his hands. She couldn't deviate from what she was meant to do; she could only say the words written centuries earlier, only make the actions they'd planned and practiced, only act as Lady Macbeth was meant to act, trapped in the story and the role and the words. 'A little water clears us of our deed; how easy is it, then!' Except she knew that no water could clear them, and it wouldn't be easy, not at all.

She waited a moment; he didn't react, wasn't meant to, and she frowned in displeasure. She wanted to catch him by the shoulders, to make him look at _her_ instead of at those bloodstained hands, to shake him out of it, to _help_ him. 'Your constancy has left you unattended,' she said, angrily.

And then the knocking again, three loud thumps, and they were going to be discovered if he didn't snap out of it. It might be alright if he stayed staring at his hands; that would look odd but not too suspicious – stage fright, or the spies would know he was afraid, but they wouldn't know he'd told. But if he started speaking, if he said something about Voldemort's attack…

She couldn't let that happen, but there was nothing she could do to stop it.

'Hark! more knocking,' she said, heading for the door with his hand in hers, tugging to get him to come, hoping and hoping desperately that he'd snap back to normal in time, that he'd manage, that it would go unnoticed… 'Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us and show us to be watchers.' He was meant to speak in a moment, and if he didn't… if he couldn't…

She caught at him, pulling him impatiently towards the door, wishing she could do something other than annoyed, irate. 'Be not lost so poorly in your thoughts,' she spat, unable to help the edge of desperation that came into her voice, unable to help the fear, because he was meant to speak now, had to speak now, and the silence was unfilled…

A moment passed, and another, each one feeling like forever, a second too long, as she could do nothing but stare at him in ire, could do nothing to help.

And then he shivered, a long, twisting shiver, and blinked, and looked up at her. His hand tightened slightly on hers, and she couldn't help but return it. His lips parted, closed again, and all of this could be taken as part of the play, she knew it could, all he had to do was speak, say the right line…

He shook his head a little, as if shaking himself clear, and the look he gave her was genuine; fear and pain and desperation. 'To know my deed,' he said, and it was the right line, the right words, 't'were best not know myself.'

More knocking, but Hermione almost managed to breathe a sigh of relief; one more line, Draco could say one more line, that was all he needed. They wouldn't be discovered, not now, not yet.

He tipped his head upwards, anguish twisting his features. 'Wake Duncan with thy knocking!' he cried, and Hermione knew he meant it. 'I wish thou couldst!'

And then he was following her, hand still tight in hers, into the welcome darkness of backstage, where Harry was waiting for them.

* * *

**AN: **In my original planning, this was the first half of a chapter, but when I started writing new scenes appeared and it got longer than I thought it would be. So now what was once one chapter is now two chapters. 

This means that you got this earlier than you would have otherwise and that you have two more chapters to look forward to instead of one. Rejoice!

There's only one question I can really ask, isn't there: what was your favourite bit of HBP? Least favourite?

Review!


	24. Act Five, Scene Six

Macbeth: Act Five, Scene Six

**Disclaimer: **Contrary to popular belief, I am not dead. This should immediately give you the clue that I am not Shakespeare. (I'm not J.K.Rowling, either.)

**Thanks for 1608 reviews goes to everyone who's been waiting patiently for so long. **I'm not going to type out all the names because it'd probably take me a week to do it, and you've waited far too long already.

**A/N: **Reasons why it took me so long to write this include, but are not limited to: writer's block, the school play, university applications, university open days/scholarship exams/interviews, coursework, school in general, January exams, betas also having too much stress and not enough time, turning 18, the birth of my new nephew Sam, minor car accidents, falling down stairs and hitting obscure parts of my skull, and the chickenpox.

It's been quite chaotic, as you might imagine, and I am even now avoiding revision to update. Having exams starting shortly. The good news is, though, that all the rest of Macbeth is written and will be updated very soon – they're just being betaed. Counting the epilogue, this is the preantepenultimate chapter, or, the third from last. I promise the others will be up soon.

Considering how long it's been already, I won't say anything more about what's been happening to me in the meantime, I'll just let you get on with the fic. Nice long chapter, too. Enjoy!

* * *

They stepped into the relative safety of the wings, Draco's hand tightening on hers. The fake blood was unpleasantly sticky where it clung between their skin. 

'I can't do this…' Draco began in a whisper. His voice was so quiet she could hardly hear it: if she hadn't felt his breath ghosting over her skin, she'd have thought it was her imagination. 'I… Hermione…'

'It's okay,' she whispered, wondering if Harry was watching them, waiting for them in the shadows, and then realised that she didn't care. Draco would be furious with her, and she doubted Harry would approve of them standing so close, but right now all that mattered was surviving that night, stopping Voldemort. Everything else came later. She reached out to take Draco's other hand, holding it tightly in her grasp. She couldn't have stopped herself if she'd wanted to. 'We'll find an answer, we'll stop him. Don't be scared.'

Draco closed his eyes, wrapped his fingers around hers as though drawing strength through her skin. There was a moment when it felt like nothing existed but the two of them and the place where their hands were joined – and, as always, the cloying blood on his skin, her skin – and then the Porter started speaking. Draco seemed to straighten; his eyes opened and focussed on a point over her shoulder. Without looking, Hermione knew what had caught his eye.

She glanced over her shoulder to see Harry, half-wreathed in shadows, watching the two of them suspiciously. Almost flushing, thankful for the darkness, she reluctantly pulled her hands out of Draco's, the blood trying to stick their skin together. She reached for her wand, half-turning to Harry. The silence of the backstage was eerie.

_'Parmasoniti_,' she whispered. A very faint shimmer in the air surrounded the three of them, barely visible even in the darkness backstage; a soundproof shield so they could talk without being overheard by the audience. Harry stood just inside the barrier; Draco was as far away from him as he could get. She stood between them, beside Draco but turned towards Harry, glancing between them.

Draco was going to be furious. Whatever her reasons had been, whether or not she was right or wrong – and she knew she had the best of reasons, knew she was right – it was still betrayal. Betrayal to one of his enemies. And he was going to be angry. How angry? She didn't know. How long would it take him to forgive her? If he did forgive her. The thought of what might happen if he didn't rushed through her, a wave of fear thick and strong enough to be nausea. For a moment, she wanted his forgiveness more than she wanted to stop Voldemort.

Draco folded his arms. 'Sod off, Potter,' he said, eyes fixed on Harry.

There was silence, broken by the muted sound of the Porter's speech and the distant, innocent sound of laughter. It echoed eerily around the walls, out of place in the darkness. Hermione found herself unable to look Draco in the eyes; she glanced down at the floor instead, away from him. If he didn't forgive her…

Draco looked back and forth between them, his eyes flickering from her to Harry and back again. He realised. Turning sharply on her, he caught her arm and demanded, 'What did you tell him?'

'You're getting blood on my sleeve,' she whispered, completely irrationally; all she could think for a moment was that she wanted this not to be happening, she wanted him not to be angry, or to postpone his anger for even a day, an hour. Anything as long as it wasn't happening _now_.

He didn't let go. He stared at her, fingers closing on her forearm in a kind of demand – so different from the desperate, needing way he'd held her hand just moments before – and when she finally did force herself to look him in the eye, she saw only cold, tight rage in the tense lines of his face, and she knew that he wouldn't listen to reason.

'I… I told him what he needed to know,' she said, quietly but firmly, unconsciously standing straighter. She could hear the Porter speaking from the stage, and she knew that however much she wanted to explain and argue and even plead with him to understand, she couldn't afford the time. Not when Voldemort was drawing closer with every second. That knowledge hung over them, dark and inevitable, drawing closer and tighter about them with every breath; she could never forget it.

'What did you tell him?' Draco repeated, never moving his eyes from hers, his voice harsh and rough, and for a moment she could see a little of the old Malfoy in him. The Malfoy she could once have pictured killing and murdering and torturing without a qualm. No, there was nothing of that in him; she knew that, absolutely _nothing_. He simply wasn't like that.

'What I needed to know.' Harry stepped forward, echoing Hermione; she gave him a quick glance of relief and saw him glancing suspiciously between the two of them before fixing his eyes on Draco. 'And how do I know you're telling the truth?'

'It's nothing to do with you, Potter,' Draco spat. His eyes didn't move from Hermione's face as he spoke, as if unwilling to acknowledge Harry's presence; but it had the unnerving effect of making Hermione feel that the poison in Draco's voice was directed at her. It might as well have been. Uncertainly, she reached her hand up to cover Draco's where it dug almost painfully into her arm; the moment her skin touched his he jerked his hand away from her as though he'd been scalded, dropping his arms stiffly to his side.

'Draco…' Hermione began, hesitantly. She wanted to apologise, she wanted to make him understand; but logic was no match for emotion. Being right didn't change the simple, hard fact of betrayal. She'd done it because Harry could help them, because stopping Voldemort had to be the most important thing. Saving the lives of everyone in Hogwarts that evening. Saving Draco. But she couldn't find the words to speak; she couldn't even reach out a hand to apologise without words. He wouldn't have let her touch him. Numbly, she turned her head and spoke to Harry instead; Harry was easier, less angry. 'You can trust him. Draco… trust _me_, if you can't trust him.'

'Because _you're _so trustworthy,' Draco said caustically, and Hermione winced. His hands were both empty, loosely clenched into fists; if he'd been holding his wand she'd have thought he'd cast a curse on her. She would almost have preferred it.

'We don't have much time,' she said, and she could hear her voice cracking slightly in desperation. 'We… he's going to attack soon, we don't have _time _for this.' She fixed her eyes firmly on Draco, and said 'You can be angry later.' He didn't react.

There was silence for a moment; she held Draco's stare, knowing she had to look him in the eye even if she wanted to look away. His eyes were empty and hard where before they'd been full and bright with anger, and Hermione was just becoming aware that she had no idea what was happening beneath them when Harry stepped forwards. She didn't even notice him coming nearer until she felt a warm hand on her shoulder.

'I trust her.' Harry said, firmly. He wasn't looking at Hermione; he was staring at Draco, his expression almost challenging, and Hermione felt a sudden rush of gratitude. Even now, even with so much at stake, those simple words suddenly meant so much; they meant she wasn't alone.

Draco glanced briefly at Harry with a look of hatred that bordered on contempt; then he closed his eyes. The only sign of any anger or hatred in him was the stiffness in his shoulders, taut and tensed, and his fingers tightening into a fist. When he began to speak, his voice was perfectly level, perfectly dead.

'He's discovered a way to get through the Hogwarts wards. The Dark Lord and all the Death Eaters,' he began. She felt Harry stiffen behind her. 'The wards can recognise Death Eaters; they won't let them in. Not normally. But anyone who lives inside the wards – like me – absorbs some of the ward's magic into their blood. _My _blood.'

He paused, closing his eyes; she could see him struggling but couldn't move. Not when he was angry – and she knew that this smooth coldness meant he was angry, meant he was furious beyond shouting and rage. And Harry was there, too.

'It wears away slowly after a few months,' Draco continued, as though he'd never paused, 'but it's constantly replenished while someone's staying here. The wards let in anyone with that magic in their blood.'

Harry's hand tightened on her shoulder. 'It's almost my cue,' he whispered in her ear, as though not wanting to interrupt what Draco was saying. He was frowning already, very slight creases on his forehead betraying his worry. His scar stood out brightly in the semi-darkness.

'Wait as long as possible,' she whispered back, giving his hand a quick, thankful squeeze where it rested on her shoulder. Draco hadn't paused, either not noticing or not caring. His voice, as he spoke, was growing slowly less cold, less even and measured, a little of the fear and terror that Voldemort inspired creeping back.

'He found a potion. It creates a link between the blood of the maker and that of the drinker. Anyone who drinks it gets all the magical properties of the maker's blood. Of my blood.'

'Like the magic. The ability to get past the wards,' Hermione said, curling her arms around herself. The wings felt cold.

'I thought of taking poison,' Draco continued, and his voice was far, far too casual for what he was implying, 'but it wouldn't work, they thought of that already, the link only works on things that were in my blood when the potion was made. Nothing that's added later.'

Harry squeezed her shoulder. 'I have to go,' he whispered, and Hermione could hear the Porter nearing the end of his speech onstage, knew he couldn't stay a second longer. Still, he paused, hand tight and warm and real on her shoulder, just long enough to whisper, 'Be careful, Hermione,' he said, and she glanced up to see his face, colourful in the candlelight, eyes fixed on Draco. She nodded, and he slipped away, leaving them alone.

Draco fell silent as soon as Harry left; Hermione could see him breathing, chest moving too deeply and too heavily, as though something was trying to strangle him. Without opening his eyes, he said. 'You told him.'

'Yes,' she replied, simply, watching his face. There was no point denying it, because it was true, and no point explaining why she'd done it because he already knew why. Only one thing remained, and that was the simple fact that, whatever her reasons, she had betrayed him. She wouldn't let herself look away from his impossibly empty expression. Even if he hated her, even if he never forgave her…

Her mind said it was worth it to stop Voldemort. To save the hundreds of lives at stake. But there was a part of her, a part that she forced herself to ignore, a part that said nothing was worth it, that nothing was worth losing him…

'You need to wash that blood off,' she whispered, glancing down briefly at her own hands, at the bloody smear on her forearm where his hand had touched. Draco didn't move. Pulling her wand from her pocket, she took care of herself with a quick 'Scourgify!' but paused before doing the same for Draco. There was another way. She didn't have to use magic.

She had to move quickly; their cue was coming soon, and Hermione forced herself to act. Pulling the letter out of her pocket – the letter, the scribbled note which had turned the play into a nightmare – she tapped it once with her wand and muttered, '_Calix. Frigida_.'

The paper was transfigured into a small wooden bowl; a stream of cool water from the tip of her wand trickled into it. Nervously tucking the wand back into her pocket, one ear always listening to the speech from onstage, she stepped forward. Draco's eyes were still closed, as though he lacked the energy to open them; she took hold of his unresisting hand and dipped it into the water, twining hers around it.

Draco's eyes flew open; she saw a moment's surprise in them before his face returned to blankness, eyes fixed on hers. She tried telling herself that was a good thing, that she wanted him to be in control of himself. It didn't help much.

'A little water clears us of this deed,' she said, smoothing her hand over his in the water, feeling the sticky, cloying blood coming away. After a moment, he closed his eyes again, held out his other hand to be dipped into the water. If he hadn't been half-insane, if she hadn't betrayed him, if the play hadn't been rushing inexorably towards Act Five and Voldemort's attack, it might have been almost peaceful.

Onstage, Harry was laughing. 'I believe drink gave thee the lie last night,' he said, and that meant it was nearly his cue. 'Draco?' she asked. 'You have to go. Are you…?'

'Yes,' he said shortly, his shoulders straightening as he raised his chin. Hermione didn't know what he was saying yes to: she'd been about to ask if he was okay, but he could have been expecting anything.

He turned away from her as she paused to put the bowl down, uneasily silent, and she wanted to reach out to him, wanted to do anything to stop him walking away from her because it felt too much like hatred, too much like rejection. When she did speak he was too far away to touch. 'Wait!' she called after him. 'Are… are you angry with me?'

He paused at that, but didn't turn around. 'It doesn't matter,' he replied, his voice completely level. He might have been discussing the weather, or a particularly uninteresting lesson. 'I need your help whether I'm angry or not, don't I?'

'It _will _matter, after we stop Voldemort. It'll matter tomorrow,' Hermione replied, and found herself shivering a little; here, in the dark, hushed wings of a cursed play, it was hard not to be superstitious about names.

Draco paused before answering, still not looking back at her. 'If there _is _a tomorrow,' he replied, so quietly she could hardly hear it, before heading towards the stage.

* * *

'Look to the lady!' called Banquo; and that was her cue to faint. She crumpled to the floor, eyes closing, feeling the sick lurch in her stomach for the split second when she thought they wouldn't catch her before there were hands at her shoulders, lowering her carefully to the floor. She kept her eyes closed, half-worrying that the audience would hear her heart beating. 

She hated the fainting part. In a moment, the fifth-year boys would carry her offstage, and she always worried that they'd drop her. They'd only done so once in rehearsals, thankfully, but she always felt the same nervous twist in her stomach at the thought of it.

Oddly enough, tonight she felt rather reassured by the feeling. As though a silly, trivial, normal worry like this was a relief compared to the relentless terror of Voldemort.

In what felt like no time at all, she was being carried off, staying limp until the light that filtered through her eyelids vanished and she knew she was offstage. The boys carrying her set her down with a quiet thud and a hastily muffled laugh; Hermione looked up at them with mild reproach as she got to her feet. They shouldn't be making noise in the wings. One of them ducked his head in apology, the other – a Hufflepuff, she thought, with sandy hair and a mischievous grin – stuck his tongue out at her cheekily, before grabbing his friend's arm and hurrying off backstage.

If they didn't stop Voldemort, those boys would probably die.

Shivering, Hermione folded her arms around herself and ducked further into the protective darkness, standing in the shadows, so she could hear the speakers but not see them. 'Let us meet,' Banquo was saying, 'and question this most bloody piece of work to know it further. Fears and scruples shake us,' he continued, and Hermione shook her head and turned her face away from the light, forcing herself to ignore what was being said. She'd end up like Draco, seeing fate in every word of the play.

And wasn't this play meant to be cursed? She'd never been particularly superstitious, but it was hard not to be. Somewhere nearby, Voldemort and his Death Eaters were gathering, waiting, biding their time – and she didn't even know when they would come. They could attack at any moment, and with every second that passed she expected the next one to bring the sound of screaming. Only she, Draco and Harry knew what was going to happen; if they left the Great Hall to try and stop the attack, the spies in the audience would realise and signal for the attack to begin. If they left to tell anyone who could help, the same would happen. They had to do it themselves, and they had to do it, somehow, without stopping the play, without doing anything to alert Voldemort's spies.

And she didn't have a plan. She didn't even have a vague idea of what they could do. The only thing that they could have used, trapped as they were backstage, was the blood link between Draco and the Death Eaters, and Voldemort had already stopped them using that. Unless Harry or Draco had come up with something, the situation looked hopeless.

Footsteps from the stage distracted her; she glanced up to see a troupe of miscellaneous lords filing off the stage, sharing grins of amusement and the occasional shove with each other as they headed backstage. She didn't recognise any of them except Banquo – Justin Finch-Fletchley – who gave her a cheerful smile as he went past, the candlelight that filtered in from the stage making him look ghostly pale.

Harry was beside her before Draco was. 'Hermione?' he whispered, and her hand immediately went to her pocket, pulling her wand out and putting up the soundproof barrier that let them talk. He continued in a normal tone, 'Has anything happened? Are you okay?'

'No and yes,' she replied. 'I've been trying to think…'

'I can't think of anything,' Harry admitted, his eyes meeting hers for a moment, quietly afraid; she looked away, feeling sick.

'Neither can I,' she said. 'There's nothing… we have to do something, but I just can't think…'

A footstep alerted her to Draco's presence; he must have exited at the opposite side and come round, because he was further away from the door than she was, covered thickly in shadows so she couldn't see his face.

'Draco?' she called. 'Are you…?'

He stepped forwards, shards of light falling onto his tightly drawn face; the air shimmered slightly, like a heat-haze as he stepped into the region of the soundproofing spell. 'What are we going to do?' he asked simply, looking at a point somewhere over her shoulder, not into her eyes, and ignoring Harry completely.

'I…' Hermione began, paused, not sure how to tell him that she didn't know what to do. She couldn't stop Voldemort and she couldn't help him. 'We don't know,' she found herself saying, simply, quietly.

'Do you have any ideas?' Harry asked from beside her; she saw Draco's hand tighten into a fist and knew Harry had said something wrong.

'No,' he said scathingly, and it might have been a trick of the candlelight but his lips seemed to grow thinner. 'Don't you think, Potter, that if I'd had an idea I might have mentioned it before now?'

'You could have thought of something on stage,' Harry pointed out, almost sulkily.

Draco gave a scornful laugh, leaning against the opposite wall and crossing his arms. He looked arrogant, sarcastic; only Hermione, who knew what to look for, would have seen the tight set to his pale jaw, the way he turned his head away, the flicker of his eyes, that betrayed his fear. 'Not likely. Do you think I'd be letting you try to help if I could think of something? If I had any other choice?'

Hermione felt, rather than saw, Harry tensing next to her. She stepped in. 'If we work together we might be able to come up with something,' she said pointedly, glancing between them. 'We can't do anything to the Death Eaters. If we leave, the spies will know something's going on and they'll start the attack. But there has to be a way to get word to Dumbledore without the spies noticing.'

Draco gave a derisive snort. 'Dumbledore,' he muttered. 'What good will that do?'

Hermione snapped. 'If you'd gone to Dumbledore before tonight, we might not be in this situation.'

Almost as soon as she'd said it she regretted it; they didn't have time to argue. Harry would have to go soon and they had to think, their only hope was in thinking, and if they fought with each other instead of figuring out what to do then there really was no hope.

'We'd be in exactly the same situation but we wouldn't know about it,' Draco replied roughly. He was looking at her now, his eyes narrowed and alight with a sharp anger.

'There's nothing else we can do,' she said, forcing herself to stay calm. 'I've thought about everything. We can't get out to them because of the spies, and even if we could it'd practically be suicide. The only way we could have affected them is the blood link that potion created, but if it only counts the things in your blood when it was made there's nothing we can do with it. The only thing we can do is tell someone who might be able to help. Like Dumbledore.'

'You seem to have a bit of a thing for telling people who 'might be able to help', don't you?' Draco said caustically, with a pointed glance at Harry – and Hermione thought about Snape, who Draco didn't even knew she'd told – but Harry wasn't paying attention.

'What if…' he began, speaking slowly, and there was a tone in his voice that sent a spark of hope through her, 'what if… Well, we can't add anything to his blood, because the link only counts things that are already there, right?'

Hermione nodded, frowning, trying to see where he was leading.

Harry was starting to grin. 'We can't add anything. But… would it be possible to take something away from his blood…?'

'The particles,' Hermione breathed. 'The particles the wards use to recognise people… if we take them out of Draco's blood…'

'Malfoy's blood is linked to the Death Eater's blood,' Harry said triumphantly. 'If we take them out of _his _blood, they'll be gone from the Death Eaters' blood, the wards won't be fooled into thinking they belong here and they won't be able to get in!'

'And it'd work, I know how to do it,' Hermione said, half-laughing as the remembered; it all seemed so easy, so suddenly, it almost felt like fate. The very first book she'd read about the magical world, before she even set foot inside the Hogwarts wards… 'It was mentioned in Hogwarts; A History,' she said, and Harry was unable to help laughing. 'There's a potion or a spell or something that removes them and it gave a reference, we could do it…' She turned to Draco, suddenly feverish in her excitement. 'We can do it! Draco, we can stop them!'

Draco was still leaning against the wall, arms folded tightly across his chest, head tipped forward so he was looking at a point roughly around her knees, his hair falling like a pale shroud around his face. 'It'll kill me.'

His voice was impossibly level, impossibly blank. Her excitement vanished abruptly, a change as sudden and total as stepping from the black shadows into bright and glaring candlelight, becoming a different person entirely. He was right; the wards would attack anyone who tried to enter them, and the closer they got to Hogwarts the more severe it became. In the Great Hall itself, what chance did he stand?

He couldn't die. She couldn't let him die; it was unthinkable, a thoughtless panic that rose up inside her, running blindly through her body, _no, no, no_. He'd kept saying he was going to die; she'd never believed him, never even let herself think about it.

One life. Just one life, against the lives of a thousand people; if he died, they could stop Voldemort, and everyone in the audience would live. Either they died, or Draco died. It wasn't a choice anyone should be forced to make. But she couldn't let a thousand people die to save one person. Not even if it was Draco. She tried to look at him, though she didn't know what she could say – we have to, I'm sorry, I don't want to do this but there isn't any other way…

No. _No_. There _was _a way. A way to save him, a way he didn't have to die; the thought grew in her mind, the idea, they _could _save him, and the very failsafe Voldemort had built into his potion to stop them would be his downfall. It would work. It _had _to work.

'Draco,' she said breathlessly, mind racing, 'do you still remember the potion? The one you had to make, the one to make the link between your blood and theirs?'

'Why?' he asked, shaking his head and looking blankly at nothing. 'I'm going to die, Hermione. By Macduff's suggestion,' he said, nodding to Harry. 'Killed by Macduff, just like the play. Though Birnam wood be come to Dunsinane…' he muttered, with a strange, wild kind of half-laugh. 'Is the Forbidden Forest moving?'

'Don't,' Hermione implored him, stepping forward – he'd felt so far away, but he wasn't, not really – and clutching his hand. 'Do you remember how to make it?'

He shrugged, staring at a meaningless patch of floor. 'Probably,' he said.

'Teach me to make it,' Hermione demanded. After a moment, Draco glanced up at her, his eyes blank. At first she thought he was just confused, but there was a lifelessness in them, an emptiness, as though he didn't care anymore. As though he'd given up. Her plan burnt more desperately inside her, more fiercely, when she saw that; she had to make him understand that he didn't have to die, he wasn't going to die. He _couldn't _die.

'Teach me to make it,' she said again. 'We can Accio the ingredients, make them backstage. Both potions.' She was excited now, the glorious feeling of hope rushing through her, the simple, beautiful knowledge of how to do this, how to stop Voldemort and save Draco; it wasn't cursed, it wasn't fated, because she could save him.

'The first potion removes all the particles of magic from your blood,' she said, firmly. 'And since they're included in the link, it removes all the particles from the Death Eaters' blood too. But then you drink the second potion. With the particles from my blood in.' Her hand straightened against his, palm to palm, fingers matched together. 'They'll make you safe, but they won't pass to the Death Eaters, because the link ignores anything new added to your blood. You're _not _going to die.'

Draco's eyes closed and opened again, almost mechanically; for a sudden eerie moment Hermione was reminded of a doll she'd had when she was a child, one with glassy, empty eyes which were weighted to rock open or closed as it was moved. 'It won't work,' said Draco.

Hermione shook her head. 'It will work, it's _got _to work. What's wrong with it? Whatever it is…'

'Nothing will work,' Draco said, very, very quietly, and raised a hand to touch her face. His skin was cold against hers. 'Nothing will work. I'm doomed. Whatever happens I'm going to die.'

Hermione raised her free hand to his, holding it against her face. 'You aren't,' she said, unconvincingly, then again, more firmly, 'You aren't going to die. Not because of some… some silly _play_, or a bunch of coincidences. That doesn't mean anything.'

Behind her, Harry took a hesitant step forward; she'd forgotten all about him. She flushed, suddenly aware of just how close she was standing to Draco, just how near to hers his lips were…

Harry put his hand on her shoulder. 'I've got to go, I'm due on in a minute. It'll work.' She could just see him, out of the corner of her eye, his eyes flickering up to frown at Draco. 'We don't have much time; we can make the potions in one of the dressing rooms.'

She nodded, feeling Draco's skin slip against her own, and then Harry was gone into the cloaking shadows that surrounded them. For a moment, she couldn't move, couldn't do anything but stare at Draco, stare at those blank and empty eyes. He blinked hard, and she could see a kind of light spilling into them like quicksilver.

He shook his head, dropping his hand from her cheek – but their palms were still together. 'Maybe I deserve it,' he whispered harshly. 'Hermione, I don't want to die.'

'You won't die,' she promised, but he didn't listen, closing his eyes and whispering something like a mantra, so fast that it was a few seconds before she could make out what he was saying.

'Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day…'

'Draco, stop it. You're not going to die. There's no… no fate or anything. The only way you're going to die is if we don't make the potion properly,' Hermione said, and swallowed at the thought of it. That wouldn't happen. Couldn't.

He didn't even hear her. '…the way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more …'

'Stop it!' she half-shouted. 'Don't even… don't think about it, Draco, you…'

'…full of sound and fury, signifying nothing,' he finished, with a sudden deep gasp of air as though he'd been drowning, and his eyes flew open. 'Hermione… Hermione… I'm sorry, I didn't mean to die, I didn't mean to kill you, I didn't mean any of it, I never wanted this, but I have supp'd full with horrors…'

'Calm down,' she whispered, reaching out and stroking the side of his face before she even realised what she was doing; brushing a few strands of his hair out of his eyes. 'Calm down. It'll all be okay. I promise.' She couldn't promise that, though; she couldn't promise anything. Voldemort could attack early, and who could say that Draco remembered the potion correctly? They'd all had to try and learn potions from making them once, but this was more important than a test; this was Draco's life.

'We need to go and get changed for the next scene,' she said – Harry had reminded her when he mentioned the dressing rooms. Draco was breathing quickly, irregular, but he seemed to be calming under her touch. 'And you can write down the potion you made, and we can figure out what to do next. It'll all be okay.'

Draco shook his head silently, shivering, clearly disbelieving. Still, he followed her, his hand still touching hers, towards the dressing rooms.

* * *

**AN: **Two more chapters and an epilogue to go! I promise to get them up as soon as I can. Cross my heart and hope to die. 

I won't, for once, try and prompt you to review with random questions. I feel too guilty already to be doing that. Next chapter, though…


	25. Act Five, Scene Seven

Macbeth: Act Five, Scene Seven

**Disclaimer: **I am still neither Shakespeare or J.K. Rowling. Not that I was expecting to wake up and find that I'd turned into one of them.

**Thanks for 1683 reviews still goes to everyone who's been waiting patiently for so long. **

**A/N: **Next chapter! And not too long a wait for it, as promised. This chapter's another quite long one. The next and final proper chapter is a short one, but I hope to put up the epilogue the day after. And then it'll all be over.

The update will be as quick as I can manage it through the terrors of revision for my A-levels (which are the real-life equivalent of NEWTs). And yes, they are just as nastily exhausting as the wizarding version. And after A-levels I'll be off to university – specifically, Aberystwyth, which is a lovely little place on the coast of Wales. I doubt any of you will be surprised to hear that I'm studying English Literature and Creative Writing.

So this fic and my life in secondary school are coming to an end at the same time. Quite fitting, as I got the idea on a school trip – and studied Macbeth for GCSE (real-life equivalent of OWLs.)

Anyway, without further ado about nothing, I present the chapter. Enjoy.

* * *

'Have you got everything?' 

She'd left Draco behind onstage to play at plotting murder – and _please_ let him not go mad, _please_ let these potions work, please, _please_ don't let him die – and raced past the changing rooms, past the whispering cast, past the waiting props to the very back of backstage, a little alcove, almost closed off, where Harry was frantically summoning potions ingredients through the tiny door at the back of the stage. Still, she set up a hasty sound-proofing barrier as she stepped inside. There was no risk of the audience hearing, but she didn't want anything they said spreading around backstage.

'Everything for the removal potion,' Harry replied, gesturing to the floor beside him; a tiny cauldron, filled with ingredients which overflowed onto the rough wooden floor, and beside it, two books: _Hogwarts, A History_, open at the pages describing the wards, and the book it had to briefly, so vitally referred to: _The Biography of Cain Mortensen_ by Louise Marley, splayed open at the description of the potion which would remove Draco's only defence against the Hogwarts wards.

Hermione nodded, pulling a piece of parchment out of the pocket of her queen costume and opening it, smoothing out the creases as she read over the words. While they'd been changing, in the hurried, hasty seconds before they'd had to go out on stage again, Draco had written down the potion he'd made a few scant hours ago for Voldemort; the one which had linked his blood and his defences to that of the Death Eaters, and the one which would hopefully allow Hermione to do the same for him.

Hopefully. As long as Draco had remembered how to make it correctly. As long as he hadn't missed out some vital ingredient, changed an instruction, forgotten a name or a quantity… The parchment seemed so light and fragile in her hands; Draco's shaken scrawl so hasty, such a small thing to govern life or death.

Harry pulled it from her hand; she looked up, startled, and met his eyes. 'I'll get these things,' he said firmly. 'You start on the other potion.'

She nodded, pushing her worries to the back of her mind and sitting down on the floor, pulling the instructions towards her. If she'd been faced with a potion like this in class, she'd have been confident; now, when so much rode on her abilities – Draco's life, the lives of everyone in this Hall tonight, even the future of the wizarding world – she wasn't sure.

Hermione set about reading the instructions, quickly but thoroughly, making sure she understood them, before lighting a tiny fire – one that wouldn't burn the floor – beneath her cauldron and setting to work. Beside her, Harry was still patiently summoning ingredients for the second potion. She listened out for what she could only distantly hear; the on-stage dialogue. Draco was just starting to speak to the murderers. They were already in Act Three.

Three minutes and twenty seven seconds later, Harry turned away from the door, arms full of ingredients. She knew the exact time because she had to let the ginger root simmer for five minutes exactly, and she was timing it; otherwise she'd have had no idea. Time didn't seem to mean very much here. Time was measured in scenes, not minutes; in lines, not seconds, and each one brought the future closer; Voldemort and the Death Eaters descending upon Hogwarts like Birnam wood coming to Dunsinane; or Draco taking potions, possibly dying, possibly living, and not knowing was worst of all…

'You're worried about him,' Harry remarked suddenly, setting up his cauldron, and Hermione knew he was talking about Draco.

'Who?' she asked, pretending not to know, but she felt her face flush as she stirred the cauldron, and it wasn't the heat of the fire. This wasn't the time. Harry could ask her all the awkward questions he liked afterwards, when it was all over – if they were still alive – but not _now_.

'Malfoy,' was the expected reply. Harry lit the fire under his cauldron, then glanced up sharply, expectant. Hermione forced herself not to look away; it wasn't as though she had anything to be ashamed of, she told herself.

'Of course I am,' she said, checking the time. 'He's the one who's risking his life in these potions.'

Harry shrugged. 'Yeah. But…' This time when he looked at her, he was a little suspicious, and confused even more, and perhaps –it might have been the firelight, or it might have been Hermione's imagination – a little hurt.

'We've been working together for a while,' Hermione said casually, brushing a bit of stray hair away from her face. 'Rehearsals, practicing lines… if I've stopped seeing him as an enemy, it's hardly surprising.'

'It's not that you've stopped seeing him as an enemy,' Harry said slowly, adding berries to his potion. 'It's what you've _started_ seeing him as.'

A rash of heat prickled over the back of her neck. '_Harry_,' she began, feeling exasperation and fear and something else which she couldn't name creep into her voice, but he was quicker.

'Not that I mind,' he said firmly, looking at her with an earnest, determined expression that was so simply, indefinably Harry it almost startled her. 'Because if you want to fancy Malfoy, I've no idea why you would _want_ to, but if you do, then it's your decision, but I'm just worried about you. And don't deny it,' he finished. 'You do.'

'I wasn't going to deny it,' Hermione said, momentarily busying herself by adding the next ingredient to her cauldron. 'There's nothing going on, Harry,' she added at last, conveniently ignoring certain kisses which had taken place. 'Nothing's happening, nothing's ever going to happen. I'm Muggleborn, remember?' She had to bite her lip, turning her head down to the cauldron, to hide the stab of pain that thought brought her. She didn't want to worry Harry, after all.

'I know,' Harry said, frowning strangely at her. 'Still… be careful, okay?'

'He's not as bad as you think he is,' Hermione said firmly, watching the mayweed melt into her potion.

'He's a Death Eater.' Harry said firmly.

'He didn't choose to be,' Hermione replied. 'He's going mad, Harry. Mad because he's being forced to kill people.' It was Harry's turn to look away, pretending to be examining the contents of his cauldron. The half-light of the fires flickered off his hair, mimicking the candlelight onstage.

'Maybe,' he said. 'Still. Is it any wonder I'm worried?'

'Don't be,' she said, with a brief half-smile, and then she had to focus on her potion, because it was a tricky part and so many lives were in her hands. She listened to the lines going past, out on the stage, and then left the potion simmering under Harry's eye and hurried out to the stage to be Lady Macbeth once again.

From reality to the play to reality again, and every switch between stage and backstage made everything run together and blur at the edges. She almost felt like Lady Macbeth as she hurried, Draco's hand clasped tightly in her own, back to where Harry was carefully tending the potions. A determined woman dragging her weak-willed partner to prepare a carefully-constructed plan; as if Draco's mad imaginings were coming true, as though the play and reality were merging, and she'd forgotten to leave the character behind on stage where she belonged.

Or, Hermione told herself firmly, the stress was making her imagine things, too. Simply because Draco found patterns between life and the play didn't mean they were there. Just coincidence.

She was feeling almost normal, almost Hermione again, when they reached the tiny alcove where Harry was carefully adding the chopped tangleroot to a cauldron. He glanced up as they arrived; Draco dropped Hermione's hand, though not before Harry noticed.

He didn't say anything about it. 'The Knarl spines need slicing,' he said. 'It's all going fine, as far as I can tell.'

'You slice them,' Draco snapped, stepping forward and seizing the remaining clump of chopped tangleroot from the floor. 'I hope even you can manage not to mess that up, though I honestly wouldn't be surprised if you did, Potter.'

'Draco,' Hermione said sharply, reaching out to catch his sleeve, but before she could speak, or even register fully how forced that insult had sounded, Harry was speaking.

'I did pass my Potions OWL, Malfoy,' he began fiercely, the firelight or anger making his cheeks flush red. 'I'm more than capable of chopping up a couple of Knarl quills. I've been making both these potions on my own for the past five minutes, so don't-'

'I've never seen you make a potion perfectly in my life, Potter,' Draco spat, shredding sickly-green leaves into the cauldron, 'so excuse me if I relegate you to the menial tasks.'

'I don't-' Harry began fiercely, but Draco hadn't finished.

'And yes, I do mean perfectly, Potter. This isn't some silly little assignment, you don't just drop a few marks for adding things in the wrong order, this is my _life_.'

'I _know_ that, you idiot, I-'

'We don't have time for this,' Hermione cut in quickly, before the boys' argument got too out of hand. 'Harry, take care of the removal potion, I'll chop the Knarl quills.'

'No,' said Draco. 'You watch the removal potion. I don't trust him with it.' he looked up sharply, dropping the last of the tangleroot in; his eyes met hers, pale and colourless except for the firelight dancing in them. It looked unnatural. 'I shouldn't trust you either.'

There was nothing she could say to that. 'Alright,' she said, glancing up quickly at Harry; his mouth was set in a thin line, his anger evident, but arguing would only take time, and time was one commodity they didn't have.

Harry set to chopping the Knarl quills; Hermione tended her potion, and Draco tended his. There was a tension in the air, as though there wasn't already enough of it; the choking fear of Voldemort's impending attack; the apprehensive edge to the air created by the collective stage fright of every member of the cast. And this; the sick, coiling tension of animosity, of Harry feeling hurt and confused, of Draco's trust being broken, of Hermione's own guilt, and the way they didn't speak more than they had to even as they raced to save the hundreds of lives that watched, completely unaware of what was happening.

Hermione could hear the speeches form onstage, marking out time, the casual, unsuspecting way Banquo remarked on the weather – 'It will be rain tonight,' he said, with no idea of what was about to happen.

'Let it come down,' cried the First Murderer, and then there came the shouts, and the crashing sound of the stage fight. Hermione shivered, and turned back to the potion.

* * *

Acting was the hardest part. However much she'd memorised her lines and practiced her cues she hadn't prepared for this; she'd been ready for stage fright and forgotten lines and the thousand and one other things that could go wrong, but she hadn't prepared for the thought that the lives of her audience depended on her acting ability; that if she let slip the fear and worry and panic she was feeling, if she looked suspicious, Voldemort's spies could alert their master and the Death Eaters would attack. 

And the relentless passage of the play had swept them straight into the banquet scene, where the Ghost of Banquo appeared to Macbeth, where Draco, so short a time ago, had nearly, very nearly lost control. Where he'd nearly been found out.

Draco was at the head of the table, looking impressively regal; the soft golden candlelight caught the embroidery on his robes, making the fabric glow. He hadn't faltered so far, but Hermione was having difficulty keeping her gaze away from him, trying not to look for the signs which meant he was slipping. 'Here we had now our country's honour roof'd, were the gracious person of our Banquo present,' he said, 'who I may rather challenge for unkindness than pity for mischance!'

The irony, of course, being that Macbeth had just had Banquo killed. Hermione kept her fake smile on her face, regally regarding the assembled lords and keeping her gaze firmly away from her husband. She had to keep her acting perfect. If she did, then perhaps Draco could. She knew that was illogical – however much strain she was under, Draco was under far more, and if he was going to crack he would do so regardless of how well she acted – but she made herself ignore that.

'Please't your highness,' one of the lords was saying, 'to grace us with your royal company.'

Acting, she was powerless; she could do nothing to deviate from the script, from the plot, from the actions and motions she was set. She could do nothing to warn the audience, she could do nothing to help Draco; she was trapped in the play, with no means of escaping it until the scene ended and mercifully let them slip into the dark silence of backstage. Acting well or badly was the only thing she _could_ do. Logic didn't come into it.

'The table's full,' Draco complained. He hadn't yet noticed the Ghost, sitting silent and transparent at the end of the table, but the whole audience would be watching it.

The lord sitting beside the ghost, carefully ignoring its existence, gestured to the seat beside him. 'Here is a place reserved, sir.'

'Where?'

'Here, my good lord.' And now she could look at Draco, because the play allowed Lady Macbeth to look at her husband, her expression mildly confused and a little annoyed. And so she could watch Draco's face change – but it was alright, it was meant to change, he was meant to go mad here, only she hoped as strongly and as fiercely as she could hope that it would remain acting. 'What is't that moves your highness?' the lord continued, as Draco's face changed, horror that Hermione knew wasn't wholly pretence carving itself into his face, into his eyes.

'Which of you have done this?' he demanded, voice rough.

More confusion, now; she frowned. 'What, my good lord?' someone else asked, but she was focussed on Draco, now she could look at him, digging her fingernails into her palm under the table where it couldn't be seen.

'Thou cans't not say I did it!' Draco shouted, pointing with a shaking hand towards the seat, towards the Ghost, towards the embodiment of all his guilt, the source of all his madness; his murders. 'Never shake they gory locks at me!'

The Ghost grinned, an eerie expression; there were gasps from the audience as it slowly shook the blood-clotted hair from side to side.

'Gentlemen, rise,' said one of the lords, 'his highness is not well.'

And that was the cue for Lady Macbeth to rise, protecting her husband as Hermione had protected Draco, saying it was an illness rather than insanity. 'Sit, worthy friends; my lord is often thus, and has been from his youth,' she said, continuing with her best fake smile as the lords dubiously sat down, glancing at their transfixed king. 'Feed, and regard him not,' she concluded, and the instant they had returned to their meals, she rounded on Draco. 'Are you a man?' she spat.

'Ay,' he replied. 'And a bold one, that dare look on that which might appal the devil.'

She could look into his eyes now, while she spoke her lines in a bitter mixture of fury and fear, and while she could see fear and madness in them she had seen real insanity enough times to know he was still acting. She didn't know what he saw in her eyes, as he glanced back and forth between them and the Ghost, but she hoped he took some kind of comfort. It was a long scene.

'When all's done, you look but on a stool!' she finished, disgusted with her husband's action; but he began again, shouting at the Ghost, and Hermione watched.

'If thou canst nod, speak too!' he was shouting. 'If charnel-houses and our graves must send those that we bury back, our monuments shall be the maws of kites!'

The candles flared briefly, high and blood-red, and in that second the Ghost vanished. 'What, quite unmanned in folly!' Hermione said, the lords all staring openly at her insane husband.

'If I stand here, I saw him,' he said firmly, speaking to her, ignoring the rest of the room, reaching out and taking hold of her wrists. His skin against hers was a little clammy, and still sticky from the fake blood.

'Fie, for shame!' Hermione hissed, but Draco went on.

'Blood hath been shed ere now, I' the olden time, ere human statute purged the gentle weal,' he began, and his dark tone of voice so perfectly matched the one at that fateful rehearsal when he'd so nearly cracked, so nearly been found out, that she could almost imagine she was back there, still practicing, blissfully ignorant of Voldemort's plans. 'Ay, and since too, murders have been performed too terrible for the ear.'

He raised a hand, gently stroked the side of her face. She looked into his eyes, wishing she could surreptitiously squeeze the hand that still held her wrist. She could do it, perhaps – none of the audience knew it hadn't been practiced that way, that it wasn't what they'd rehearsed – but she couldn't bring herself to do something outside the pattern, the rules they'd been prescribed. It felt like superstition, one as silly as thinking the play was cursed, but she couldn't bring herself to break it.

And perhaps Macbeth _was_ cursed.

'The times have been that, when the brains were out, the man would die, and there an end,' Draco continued, eyes never moving from her face, intense and focussed. 'But now they rise again, with twenty mortal murders on their crowns, and push us from our stools,' and then he stepped away from her, half-fell into his seat, raising his hands to his face. 'This is more strange than such a murder is.'

'My worthy lord,' she said, having to force the necessary exasperation into her tone – and though she thought about resting a hand on his shoulder, she didn't – 'your noble friends do lack you.'

I do forget,' Draco said wearily, and paused a moment; he looked old, then, and she wasn't sure whether it was a trick of the candlelight or whether it was the strain, the madness, etching themselves into his skin. He stood. 'Do not muse at me, my most worthy friends,' he said, addressing the lords gathered at the table. 'I have a strange infirmity, which is nothing to those who know me.'

And then he stopped, in the middle of a speech, and Hermione froze beside him; his head was bowed, and only she could see how tightly his fingers gripped the table, as though the world were falling away from him and he were clinging to the only solid thing left, and then just when she thought he was going to crack he continued. He hadn't even paused for a second. 'Come, love and health to all; then I'll sit down.'

She hadn't even begun to get her nerves back together – making sure, at all times, to keep the mask on her face; the faked hostess smile – when Draco was speaking to her. 'Come, give me some wine, fill full.'

She filled his goblet from the flagon on the table. Fruit juice, with some kind of magic or colouring added to make it the perfect shade of blood red. Symbolic. She thought about how much blood Draco must have seen; she could barely pour the liquid straight, had to concentrate to keep it from spilling as she passed it to him.

'I drink to the general joy o' the whole table,' Draco went on, raising the glass. She could look at him; his expression was set perfectly, the king proposing a toast to an absent friend, but Hermione knew him better than that, and knew what to look for; the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand gripped the goblet hard enough to crack it if it had been glass, the tightness in his jaw. 'And to our dear friend Banquo, whom we miss; would he were here! to all, and him, we thirst, and all to all.'

'Our duties, and the pledge.' The Lords intoned, and then Hermione had to dig her nails into her palm again, carefully concealed beneath the table, because otherwise her fear would have shown; otherwise she'd have cried out; this was the place where the Ghost of Banquo appeared again, the place where Draco had almost lost it, in the rehearsal, almost been found out.

In the corner of her eye, she saw the magical apparition flicker into existence again, and however much she wanted to look at it she couldn't, because only Macbeth was supposed to be able to see it. And she couldn't look at Draco, not until he cried out…

'Avaunt!' he shrieked, flinging his goblet at the Ghost; the blood red wine spun through the air, spattering the stage. Panic was creeping into his tone; the same panic she'd heard so many times before, too many times; the horror of his murders, the fear of Voldemort, and it was too much, surely this was too much for Draco to hide, how could he stay sane through this?

'And quit my sight! let the earth hide thee!' he went on; Hermione, forcing herself to stare in anger and horror at her husband's madness – though the horror wasn't all acted – knew that this had to be it, this had to be the end; it couldn't be a question of whether or not he cracked; it was a question of _when_. Draco was advancing towards the Ghost, fury and fear and terror flushing his face. 'Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold; thou hast no speculation in those eyes which thou dost glare with!'

It was her line. 'Think of this, good peers,' she said, hearing her voice shaking, too fast and too high – that was okay, she could get away with that as acting, it could be in character – 'but as a thing of custom; 'tis no other, only it spoils the pleasure of the time.'

Draco, at the other end of the stage, was ranting; seeming hardly to hear her lines, seeming hardly to notice the others around him; his eyes were fixed on the Ghost. 'What man dare, I dare,' he began, voice low and trembling. Hermione listened, watching from behind Lady Macbeth's face; strangely, she felt a sudden moment of calm. She should be terrified. Draco was going to crack, any moment now, and bring Voldemort and his Death Eaters down on the Great Hall, but it was almost as if knowing this took away the uncertainty, the tension; there was nothing she could do to change the course of events, so why should she panic?

'Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves shall never tremble,' Draco was saying, voice tight, almost cringing away from the Ghost even as he tried to confront it, 'or be alive again, and dare me to the desert with thy sword; if trembling I inhabit then, protest me the baby of a girl.'

He was close enough to the Ghost to touch it, now; all the Ghost did was continue to watch him, expressionless and bloody and accusing. _Murderer_. And Draco did nothing; simply stared at the apparition on the stool, eyes showing nothing but the reflections of candlelight, distant, falling into his memories, his horrors, his own private ghosts, the blood on his hands that could never be washed off, his Banquos. This was it.

And then Draco moved, shifting imperceptibly; still tense, still terrified, still trapped and imprisoned and sickened by his memories but somehow defiant, and in a cracking, shaking voice he cried, 'Hence, horrible shadow! Unreal mockery, hence!'

And the Ghost was gone.

For a long, dramatic second, he stood still; eyes not moving from the place it had been – and Hermione didn't know whether he was still acting, at this point; whether he was still playing a part or whether he was Draco, going mad and doing it in Macbeth's words because they fit so cruelly. But he had managed it; he had faced the ghost and not gone mad, and maybe, maybe he had enough strength left to get him through his scene.

'Why, so: being gone, I am a man again,' he said, voice low and emotionless and empty. The lords were muttering amongst themselves, alarmed. ' Pray you, sit still,' he added, without looking at them, without changing his tone.

That was her cue to stand. 'You have displaced the mirth,' she began, carefully meting out anger in her tone, 'broke the good meeting, with most admired disorder.'

'Can such things be,' Draco asked, 'and overcome us like a summer's cloud without our special wonder?' He looked towards her, at last; their eyes met across the tables. Lit by candlelight, they seemed unnatural, somehow. The colours were all wrong, and the flickering light made them look almost too alive. Mocking. She could see madness in his eyes, but couldn't tell whether it was an act or whether it was reality.

The lords were in chaos. 'You make me strange even to the disposition that I owe, when now I think you can behold such sights, and keep the natural ruby of your cheeks, when mine is blanched with fear.'

'What sights, my lord?' one of the lords asked.

Draco's head whipped round to face him, and for a moment Hermione almost thought he was going to start answering; talking about death and murder and Voldemort. She cut in quickly with her lines. 'I pray you, speak not,' she said, 'he grows worse and worse; question enrages him. At once, good night: stand not upon the order of your going, but go at once.'

The lords, with confusion and suspicious looks, began to file out. 'Good night; and better health attend his majesty!' said one of them.

'A kind good night to all,' and then it was just herself and Draco and the empty tables. Draco hadn't moved; still standing by the spot where Banquo's Ghost had sat, staring once again at the stool. 'It will have blood; they say, blood will have blood,' he began; she watched him speak, searching for any signs that he was about to crack. They were through the worst, past the ghosts and murders for this scene at least, but he could still crack; he had to be so close to the limits of what he could endure, what he could manage to hide. He'd been hiding for far too long.

'What is the night?' he asked, and Hermione felt oddly relieved; oddly, because how could she feel something like relief when Draco could very well die soon, if their potions didn't work; him or their audience members.

'Almost at odds with morning, which is which,' she replied, starting to walk towards Draco, walking past the ruined banquet tables, spattered with wine that may as well have been blood. A few lines of dialogue passed without her really noticing them; talk about Macduff, necessary to move the plot along, but what she was really interested in was Draco, who hadn't cracked, after all.

She wasn't supposed to touch him yet, that wasn't how they'd practiced it, but then, who would know? She took his hand in her own as she reached his side, feeling the coldness of his skin against hers. Even his hand was tense, coiled, rigid. She smoothed a finger over the skin.

'For mine own good, all causes shall give way,' he was saying; and that didn't match reality, no at all, because Draco was going to risk his life for that of thousands. Put that way, it sounded dramatic, heroic; it wasn't really. Not like in stories; and she'd been friends with Harry too long to believe in the fairytale version. Draco was risking his life because the murders drove him mad and the thought of that was worse than death; because he believed that he was fated or destined or some such rubbish to die as Macbeth did in the play. And other reasons, probably.

Her line, and here she was meant to touch him, bringing up a gentle hand to his face. 'You lack the season of all natures, sleep,' she said, sounding gentle, sounding kind; for once she didn't really have to act.

'Come, we'll to sleep,' he agreed. 'My strange and self-abuse is the initiate fear that wants hard use,' and then he caught at her hands, staring at her, not with madness and insanity but with weariness, exhaustion; a deep sense of horror and despair.

'We are yet but young in deed,' he said, and led her gently, slowly, offstage, into the welcoming darkness. As soon as they were hidden he started shaking as though in shock or trauma, eyes desperate, hair falling loosely around his face and catching against his skin. 'Hermione,' he whispered, so quietly she could hardly hear it, let alone the audience; 'Hermione, I can't do this, I can't keep doing this, please Hermione, I can't…'

She reached out and tugged him into her arms. 'It's okay,' she whispered back. 'It'll all be over soon.'

Which it would be, one way or another.

* * *

**AN: **And next time, I promise, I won't leave you hanging on for what happens next. It's all downhill from here! Which, of course, brings me to the all-important question, and something a few of you have been speculating on already – what do you think's going to happen? 

If you have no idea, or don't want to suggest, then here's something else I'm interested in: ebtwisty9 emailed me regarding song lyrics that fitted the fic (specifically the first bit of Pink Floyd, The Trial, if anyone's interested.) Anyone else heard a song (or a poem, or similar) and thought of Macbeth?

Answer one, the other, or both. Review!


	26. Act Five, Scene Eight

Macbeth: Act Five, Scene Eight

**Disclaimer: **I am currently constructing a time machine which will allow me to travel back in time and become Shakespeare. Except for the minor detail of being a woman. Damn. Perhaps I should become JKRowling instead?

**Thanks for 1732 reviews still goes to everyone who's been waiting patiently for so long. **

**A/N: **Nearly at the end, everyone - this chapter, the epilogue, and then it's all over. This is a particularly short chapter as well, mainly because my original chapter planning went awry when I started writing these parts (as it often does), which meant I had to mush what was originally two chapters together and separate it into three. The natural chapter divisions gave me two long chapters and a third shorter chapter. This being the short one.

But who cares about length, because this is finally, finally going to be the chapter where at least some of all the worries you've been having for the past weeks and months get resolved. Therefore without further ado… onto the chapter.

Enjoy!

* * *

They sat on the floor of their tiny alcove, the three of them gathered around the cauldrons; chopping, mixing, stirring, reading and rereading the instructions, the neat, precise writing of the book and Draco's hurried scrawl, ink smudged over the parchment. 

It wouldn't be much longer, now. A few more ingredients for one, a few more minutes simmering for the other, stir them a few times more and they were done. Life and death resolved in liquid form.

They didn't talk. Distantly, through the shield, Hermione could hear the quiet chatter of the actors, the lines spoken on stage, some of the lords getting their turn to speak, but the only close sounds were their own breathing, the burning of the fire and the bubbling of the cauldrons.

Hermione didn't know if she wanted to speak, or if she preferred the silence. She wanted to speak to Draco; Draco, who was so tightly drawn, as though someone had sliced all the curves of his skin away and left nothing but harsh, angular lines in their place. Draco who carried the pain of murder, marking him indelibly for those who knew where to look. Draco who she loved, if she were honest, though she was never sure how: not in the usual meaning of the word, not a fairy-tale romance. Nothing about this was remotely like a fairytale; it was more like a horror story.

He hated her, in some ways; he still thought she wasn't human, was some inferior creature, and that hurt more than she would have expected. And what kind of love grew from that? But there was a connection, somehow; she cared about him, she worried about him, a care and a worry greater than that she would feel for someone else in the same position, with the same horrors smothering them. If love was the state in which someone else's happiness was vital to her own, then she loved Draco, strange and broken as it may be.

And she wanted to speak to him, yes; wanted to help. But a silence had fallen over them and Hermione didn't know if she could break it, any more than she could have broken a silence onstage when the script didn't give her permission to speak.

Perhaps it was simply that there was nothing that could be said. No words she could say would fit this place, could match the fate that lat thickly over them. Oh, perhaps Shakespeare could have written her some lines, but he'd only written the play, not the actors, not real life.

Except the play was becoming real, wasn't it? That was what Draco believed. It might as well be true.

She stirred the cauldron, counting in her head, watching the colour change. And then, a voice.

'Harry?' someone was calling. 'Harry, are you back here?'

Footsteps, coming closer; any minute their cauldrons would be discovered. Hermione glanced up; met Harry's eyes. 'Go,' she whispered – it was unnecessary, of course, she couldn't be heard through the shield, but the silence still lay thickly over them. 'Just keep whoever it is away. We can finish the potions on our own.'

Harry nodded, glanced between Hermione and Draco. 'Right. Good luck,' he said, a little awkwardly; then, more firmly, 'Hermione, you know-'

'Harry?' came the voice again.

'Just go,' Hermione insisted – the footsteps were coming closer – and Harry nodded. Briefly squeezing her hand, he scrambled out of the alcove.

'Harry, there you are! I've been looking all over, please, can we just go through our scene again? I'm terrified, I'm going to forget my words…' There was the sound of shuffling papers; a script? It had to be whoever was playing Malcolm.

'Er, I was doing something…' Harry began.

'Doing what?' came the voice, curious, and footsteps started towards the alcove again.

'Nothing much,' Harry cut in quickly. Hermione heard him sigh. 'Come on, then, let's go through this scene.

Their footsteps faded together. Stage fright? Forgotten lines? It seemed so far away, so impossible, such a silly thing to worry about in the pool of flickering light cast by the cauldron flames. They had a cauldron each to tend, now, and the potions were rapidly coming to completion. Hers was looking as the book described, exactly; whether Draco's was right or not she could only guess at. Hermione almost wished the potions took longer to make. Longer before that horrible moment arrived, the moment when Draco took the potions. The moment when they'd find out if their potions had worked, if Voldemort's plan would fail or whether they'd be powerless to stop his attack. The moment when she found out whether Draco would live or die.

He would die in front of her, and the thought was suddenly terrifying. To see him dying, to see the second potion failing and knowing there was nothing she could do to stop it. The Hogwarts wards were strongest at their centre; weakest at the edges. Where Voldemort approached they wouldn't be fatal; they would simply stop the Death Eaters from entering – as long as this plan worked. Here, in the Great Hall, they would attack anyone who wasn't supposed to be here; they would attack Draco as soon as the particles that marked him as a student vanished from his blood.

How would he die? Would it hurt? Would it be quick? She found her hand shaking as she poured the final ingredient into her cauldron. If she had to watch him die, slowly, if it was agonising… Could she watch that? Worse, would she have to choose between killing him swiftly and watching him suffer? The thought made her recoil; she couldn't imagine having to make it. Yet she might be forced to, and far, far too soon.

There was an explosion; and for a long, long moment Hermione thought this was it, they'd been too late, Voldemort was attacking and thee was nothing she could do, before she realised that all it meant, the only thing, was that the witches' scene was beginning. Draco needed to be onstage in about five minutes. The thought was laughable.

'All it needs is your blood,' Draco said suddenly. His voice was soft; not a whisper, but low and subdued. Empty.

Hermione nodded. 'Does it matter how much?' she asked, and he shook his head. He was kneeling on the floor, bead bowed and watching the surface of the potion; Hermione thought it looked almost submissive. Not to her; to whatever imagined fate he thought he was facing.

'Seca,' she muttered, bringing her wand to her palm; a tiny cut appeared in the flesh, stinging, but she barely noticed it. Carefully, she held her hand over the cauldron, watching the blood drip into the liquid. This was it.

It started, ever so slowly, to pick up the colour, turning first to a red so dark it was almost black, than starting to lighten. 'It needs a minute,' Draco said blandly. 'Cool it with a baboon's blood, then the charm is firm and good,' he said vaguely, than looked up sharply at her.

'A baboon?' she asked, feeling the familiar deep-seated pain. He'd never believe she was anything more than some kind of strange, mutant animal, would he? Never believe she was human.

'It's in the script,' was his only reply. He reached out, closed her hand around the wound and pushed it back to her. 'That's enough. Wait.'

She rested her hand on her lap, watching the blood start to clot, watching the colour curling and thickening through the potion, reddening. Draco's hand lay open, mirroring hers, and she wondered if he'd had the same scar on his palm, earlier that evening. He'd have healed it. She should heal this, but part of her didn't want to, not yet; this wasn't over yet.

She glanced up at Draco; his eyes were fixed on the potion. Far away, the witches were chanting; distant, menacing words, words that mimicked so cruelly their own actions, words that seemed to twist themselves into everything they were doing, controlling them in this one moment as the play had controlled the murders, the madness; mimicking and mocking everything that had happened.

'Are you frightened?' she asked suddenly.

'What do you think?' he asked, incredulous, sarcastic, but she could hear the terror shaking through his words. He closed his eyes, breathed in as though the air had stuck in his throat, as though fear had frozen his limbs and then spread to the very air he was trying to breathe. 'Yes. I don't want to die. And there's nothing I can do to stop it, nothing, whatever happens I'm going to _die_, Hermione, and…'

'It's okay,' she whispered, trying to find the words to say. How could she say he wasn't going to die? He might. And he wouldn't believe her, anyway, if she told him he wouldn't; the play was controlling them, dictating everything they did, and as far as Draco in his narrow, madness-bounded world could see there was no way to escape that.

'I'm here,' she said, and then, half-ironically, quoted: 'But screw your courage to the sticking-place, and we'll not fail.'

'Stop it!' he shouted, a sudden, violent outburst that had Hermione flinching back, and then, quieter but trembling, 'Stop it, don't quote from it, don't bring it up, I'm going to die because of it, you can't be trapped by it too, please, Hermione, you've got to stay free of it.' He was being serious, deadly serious.

'Free of it?' she asked.

'Don't let it control you too,' he whispered, and then reached across the cauldron for her hand and clung to it. 'Not you as well. Promise me.'

And though she didn't know exactly what he meant, she nodded. 'I promise,' she said.

He nodded, let go of her hand. 'It's ready.'

The potion was blood red, and though the fire was still burning away underneath the cauldron it had stopped bubbling while they'd spoken; the surface was calm and placid. 'Does it look right?' she asked.

'Yes,' Draco said, 'but that doesn't mean it is.'

She nodded, turning away from his gaze. They didn't have anything to drink out of; she took the battered piece of parchment, which had served first as letter, then as instructions – problem and solution together – and tore it neatly in half. '_Calix_,' she muttered, tapping each piece, transfiguring them into two small wooden bowls.

Carefully she dipped one into each cauldron, filling each to the brim with potion. Draco watched, but she couldn't bring herself to look him in the eyes. Wordlessly, she handed him the first bowl. The one which would remove all protection from his blood, the one which would leave the wards free to attack him. Onstage, the witches' chant was getting louder.

He took it, held it for a moment, then slowly, ever so slowly, he raised it to his lips and drank.

There was a fraction of a second's grace, their eyes meeting, and then he screamed, and oh, it had worked, it had worked, and fate was bearing down upon them.

'Draco!' she shouted, scrambling to get to him with the antidote, the cure; the first cauldron went flying but she didn't care, blood-red potion spilling from the bowl and that she did care about, because he had to survive, he had to, but how could he when the play was controlling everything, set against him? She pressed the bowl to his lips, wide and taut in a scream – and oh, she was thankful for the shield – and poured as much of the potion into his mouth as she could. He couldn't swallow, the pain too much for rational thought; every muscle tense with the scream, with the horrible, horrible pain, and she filled a second bowl and helped him drink it, other arm holding him upright, but he didn't stop, he didn't stop.

It wasn't working.

This was it, this was it; the play taking its toll, claiming its victim, killing him, because that was what happened in the play; Macbeth died and so Draco must die and this was it, this was it, she could do nothing but watch…

It couldn't end like this! And she remembered what Draco had made her promise, only before, she wouldn't let the play control her, wouldn't be trapped by it, would stay free from its influence, and that meant not believing that everything that happened was controlled by the play; she clung to his shoulders, shaking him. 'You can't die!' she shouted desperately, trying to drown out his scream; her eyes were filling with tears, his face blurring and fading before her; she blinked them away. 'It's not controlling you! It's just a play, it's imaginary, it can't affect you, it can't control real life! You're not going to die because a stupid play says you do, it's not real, it's not real and _this is_!'

She tugged him closer to her, impulsive, hardly knowing what she was doing, holding him tightly, pressing a kiss to his forehead, and slowly, magically, he stopped screaming. He lay gasping for air, Hermione the only thing keeping him upright, face covered with sweat and pale and spattered with the potion but breathing, breathing, and not dead at all.

She felt like laughing, or like crying, but she couldn't do either; could do nothing but sit and breathe. She held onto him tightly, as though letting him go would let fate steal him away from her, and he made no move to do anything other than rest there in her arms.

And then the witches neared the end of their potion, and Draco staggered to his feet, assuring her that he was alright, because he had to be onstage.

The idea was laughable, after all they'd been through. But the show, after all, had to go on.

* * *

**AN: **Epilogue up in a couple of days, everyone. In the meantime – get reviewing! And there's only one question I can ask – what did you think? 


	27. Epilogue

Macbeth: Epilogue

**Disclaimer: **Do I look like Shakespeare to you? Or J.K.Rowling?

**Thanks for 1795 reviews still goes to everyone who's been waiting patiently for so long. **

**A/N: **Sorry this took so long - the site was having problems uploading documents. But here is is: this is officially The End. My thanks go to everyone who made this fic possible: to the production of Macbeth in Stratford-upon-Avon which inspired this whole enterprise; to Shakespeare and J.K.Rowling, obviously; to all my friends who stepped in to read things over for me when I needed a bit of extra betaing or advice; to Hannah, for keeping me laughing with her fantastically sarcastic betaing; and especially to Lou, for betaing, endless plot discussions, putting up with my rambling and generally going beyond the call of friendship.

Most of all, my thanks go to all of you. I can't begin to thank all of you enough for all the encouragement, support and suggestions you've given me over the course of this fic. I've read and treasured every one of the reviews you've given me; they've made me smile, made me laugh, made me think, and helped keep me going when I really needed it. I started writing for the pleasure of it, but without all the feedback I've received – not just on Macbeth, but on everything I've ever written – I'd certainly never be planning to go on to do Creative Writing at university now. It's your support that helped give me the confidence to go for it – and that's confidence that'll change the course of my life. And for that, thank you so much to everyone. I couldn't have done it without you.

Looking to the future, and I know a lot of you have been asking about Fallen. I'd love to give you the news you want, but I'm afraid I'm not going to be continuing it soon. My summer's going to be crammed full – I have more holidays away this year than I think I ever have, and I'm going to have lots of lessons in how to survive university without starving, contracting plague or wearing really creased clothes. And then of course I'll have plenty of work to occupy me at university. I don't want to pick up a project the size of Fallen when I know I'm not going to have enough time to do it justice. I will keep on writing, however, and I'll keep you all updated on my profile if any of you are interested.

I think I've said enough. With my final thanks, and a round of applause to you all, here's on to the epilogue. Enjoy.

* * *

It was raining, the kind of endless, ceaseless rain that battered against windows as though trying to break them, simply for the sport of doing so. The kind of rain that planned to carry on in exactly the same way for the whole afternoon. 

Not that she could go outside, of course. As soon as the play had ended, they'd gone to Dumbledore: she, Harry and an unresisting Draco. 'He knows I betrayed him,' he'd said simply, blank and eerily passive. 'He's going to come after me whatever I do.'

They had met with Dumbledore, explained everything that had happened: Draco's unwilling status as a Death Eater; the guilt, the way he'd gone mad and only Hermione had found out; then Voldemort's plan, their potions and how they'd stopped him. Afterwards, the grounds had been searched. They'd found a body; a Death Eater who'd been too far inside the wards when Draco had drunk the potion, who hadn't been able to escape when the protection in his blood suddenly wore off. He had been minutes away from the school, and there must have been others advancing with him.

They'd kept the body out of sight, of course, so Hermione knew no more about it than what had been hinted at in the Daily Prophet, and wished she didn't even know that much. Draco could have died in exactly the same way.

The school had been closed early for the holidays; students confined to their Houses in a state of near-panic while the professors hurriedly made the arrangements. Rumours had abounded, twisting the story of what had really happened so much that she could hardly recognise it. She'd stayed in the dormitory most of the time, only venturing out for the few mealtimes there'd been before the coaches had arrived and they'd been packed off to the train. Even then she'd hurried back to the dorm pretty quickly. The sheer number of people crowding round her, asking questions, had been smothering. Harry had been hiding most of the time too.

Of course, this meant that as soon as they'd reached the Order – Dumbledore had insisted they couldn't stay at the school, not so shortly after a near-attack – Ron had dragged her off with Harry, demanding to hear her version of events. He hadn't been pleased, to say the least, at the fact that she seemed to be getting closer to Draco. But, after everything that had happened, Ron seemed the least of her worries.

That was why she'd spent most of the time since the play in her room reading, or studying, or simply relaxing; the weight of the play and all that it entailed was lifted from her shoulders, gone with such amazing suddenness that she could hardly believe it was really over. And, finally, she had the chance to relax a little.

She'd asked, while they were still at school, to see Draco, but had been told that was impossible. Draco had left straight after their meeting with Professor Dumbledore; taken away somewhere – she hadn't been told where – for all the things she supposed were necessary when someone in a war sought protection with the other side. Questioning to make sure it wasn't some elaborate hoax – as if it could be – and questioning about details of the Death Eaters, gathering all the information they could about Voldemort and his plans, his followers.

Dumbledore had assured her they would be kind to him. They'd do what he could to make sure he was okay; they'd try what they could to help him with the guilt and the insanity. Hermione had a feeling that Draco's madness would lift, now that the play was over and he was no longer a Death Eater. The guilt, she knew, would not.

But Dumbledore had also said he wouldn't be kept long; and so it was a few days into the holidays proper, with the rain battering at the windows, that Draco arrived at the Order's house in Grimmauld Place.

Hermione was reading, and didn't notice him stepping into the room over the sound of the rain; it was only when he said her name that she looked up in surprise.

'Draco!' she said, scrambling to her feet before pausing, suddenly uncertain; her impulse was to hug him, but she didn't know if she could. He was standing just inside the doorway; chin raised slightly, hair neatly combed as always. Nothing had changed about him that she could see, but there was something different in the way he held himself, some subtle tweak of body language that made all the difference. The play was over, now, and with it things had changed. He wasn't the guilty, bloody Death Eater; she wasn't the only one who could help him, and she didn't know quite how to act. 'You're here,' she found herself saying, rather lamely. 'I didn't know you were coming.'

'I didn't either,' he said, casting a glance around the room. Hermione wondered how it must look, to his aristocratic pureblood eyes; it had been part of the Black family home, true, but the Order's occupation had transformed this room; comfy, well-worn sofas lent to them from someone who'd been throwing them out; some cheerful pictures hung on the walls by Mrs Weasley; a clean coat of paint on the walls.

'How was it?' she asked. 'Wherever they took you. I mean, are you…'

'No, they don't interrogate prisoners under the Cruciatus curse,' Draco said sarcastically. 'Much more polite than the Dark Lord, I must say. If it were a war of manners the good side would win hands down.'

Her lips twitched. He was being defensive, she realised; it was still amusing.

'I'll take that as an 'I'm fine, Hermione, how are you?' then,' she replied. 'Since we're being polite.

There was a pause. 'Well?' Draco asked.

'She frowned. 'Well what?'

'How are you?' His lips quirked in what was almost a smile; he wandered further into the room.

'I'm fine,' she replied, suddenly aware of how odd this conversation was. 'I haven't been doing much, other than homework and a bit of reading.'

He picked up her book, one finger marking her place as he read the back. 'Interesting?' he asked.

'I think so,' she replied, watching him. 'It's a Muggle book. One my mother bought me a while ago.'

He shrugged, flicking to the first page and skimming through it. 'I suppose it would be Muggle, if your mother bought it.'

Hermione paused, watching him read; there was a question implied, there, one she was wondering if she even wanted to ask him. The answer could be far too painful.

'Do you still think… do you still think Muggles aren't human?' she found herself asking, her tone of voice perfectly casual; as though she were asking about his opinions of literature. 'I mean…'

Slowly, he closed the book, tucking her bookmark neatly back inside; carefully, he set it down on the table beside her chair, then faced her. 'I don't know,' he admitted simply, and all the off-hand careless tone in his voice couldn't hide the sudden worry, the sudden insecurity, that crossed his face. There was something very familiar in the way he looked at her, then.

'I was wondering,' he said, glancing briefly away from her and back, 'if you could help me find the answer.'

And she smiled, because while it hadn't been the definite response that she'd wanted and known would never happen, his answer hinted at so, so much more. It suggested the possibility of a future, a future in which the insanity could pass away, a future in which he could start to put his guilt aside, a future in which he could change his prejudices And a future in which, perhaps…

'I think I could manage that,' she said with a smile, and reached out her hand to him. He took it.

* * *

THE END 


End file.
